


Novus Ordo Seclorum

by orphan_account



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Auctions, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Infiltration, Ownership, Physical Abuse, Rescue Missions, Sexual Abuse, Slavery, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-13
Updated: 2020-03-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:28:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 29,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23125504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: The Date has come. In a post-Project world, mankind has been enslaved and largely silenced. For over three years Scully has existed in a dark netherworld of slavery. Voluntarily entering this hell, Mulder goes in search of her.
Relationships: Fox Mulder/Dana Scully
Comments: 1
Kudos: 19





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this story can be found on the Great Seal of the United States, and means "A New Order of the Ages."

> "Tell me, tell me the story,  
>  the one about eternity,  
>  and the way it's all going to be."  
>  \--U2, "Wake Up, Dead Man."

In the beginning, there was a man and a woman. He did not trust her, and she did not even like him. But there came to be between them a respect, a growing trust, a developing friendship.

For years they existed alongside each other in this state. And if occasionally one thought of change, of furthering relations, the other did not know it.

Until the day the earth stood still. When it began its rotation again, its inhabitants found out that the world had moved on.

And the man and the woman exchanged a kiss of promise. For the first time they spoke of love, saying aloud what had only been in their hearts before.

Now they lived in hiding; in danger and peril; in excitement and adventure. Through it all they claimed happiness. And those who saw them together smiled and said that it was good.

But as all things must come to an end, so did their happiness. The woman was removed from her place of hiding by the enemy, and placed in servitude. When the man discovered this, he was filled with grief. But he remembered his promise, and so he went to find her.

For years, the woman waited, and lived with half an eye toward the past, half scanning the horizon. For years, the man searched, suffering much in his continued pursuit.

It is here where our story begins.

* * *

She had chosen this, and for choosing life he still loved her, but for choosing *this* life, he could hate her.

Yet it was his own choice that had brought him here, following her, hoping to find her. It was by his own volition that he now bore the mark of the slave on his hip, and wore a collar round his neck. It was through his own efforts that he now stood for auction in the roughest sector of what remained of the city.

It had been a costly three years, and although he had not escaped unscathed, he had so far avoided the worst horror: all slaves had their tongues cut out, to ensure silence and obedience.

That he could still speak was his greatest secret.

That she could, too, was his hope.

On the stage the gavel banged, and another slave was led away. The auctioneer called out a lot number and brought the gavel down twice.

One of the burly men in charge of the slaves tugged on his leash, and he went, reluctantly. In the very beginning he had faced a choice. He could go along quietly, submissively, even. Or he could make noise, fight every step of the way, and thus gain himself a reputation.

Never one to go by the rules, he had chosen to fight.

The end of his leash was attached to a pole in the middle of the stage. The auctioneer never glanced up, merely began his rapid-fire sing-song recitation of the slave's qualities, soliciting bids at a pace that scarcely seemed to allow him time to breathe.

The slave stood still, hands at his sides, his head up, staring haughtily at them all. At his first auction he had been in tears, utterly destroyed by the humiliation; it was only by thinking of *her* and how she must have endured, that he had gotten through it at all. Now he was used to the chanting, the greedy looks from the crowd, the poking and prodding at his body. Now it was hatred that sustained him.

The female slaves had it worse, he knew. They were assessed not only for their work capabilities, but for breeding purposes as well. Many a female slave was medically examined during her sale, in full view of the crowd. Thinking of her forced to undergo such degradation only hardened his resolve to find her.

The bids came on fast and furious, and his asking price soared. He noted with grim satisfaction that the smaller slaveowners had been left behind in the bidding war. He wanted no part of them; only those who had wide spreads interested him. More slaves meant more chances for him to learn about her, her fate. The trail had led him this far, and he did not intend to lose it now.

The auctioneer banged the gavel, startling him. The crowd gave a small cheer for the man who worked his way through the throng to the backstage area.

Scattered applause burst out as his lead was unclipped from the pole and he was led offstage. In another lifetime he might have fought, but now he merely followed the man holding his leash.

Backstage, his new owner gloated as the leash was handed to him. In his other hand he held the leather-bound packet that contained the slave's papers. "Let's go," he said, in a harshly accented voice. He gave the leash a sharp tug.

The man walked off, and the slave quietly followed, but Fox Mulder still walked with his head held high.

* * *

No matter how hard she tried, Dana Scully could never quite make sense of it all. When she looked back at the past, she felt she was making her way through a mine field, each step a perilous one, leading her closer and closer to that impassable wall, that place in memory she could never breach, never recover.

By her best estimate, she had lost three years.

Some of her memories remained frustratingly clear, like the day--it had to have been at the very beginning of it all--when Mulder, who had disappeared for several days, burst into their shared office in the basement of the Hoover Building.

"We have to move, Scully," he'd cried.

Even now, across immeasurable time and distance, she could picture him. The dark bristles of unshaven beard on his cheeks, the purplish bruising around one eye, the light of sheer terror in his eyes. "We have to move, Scully!"

She'd stood up, but so slowly. "Mulder, where have you been?"

He'd lunged forward and grabbed her hand. He must have called her name, because in the memory she saw his lips move, but there was no sound. There was nothing else.

The woman formerly known as Dana Scully sighed and leaned her forehead against the window. From her vantage point, the fields of wheat stretched endlessly to the horizon, and the slaves who tended the crop were only tiny toy figures.

Somewhere below a woman's voice called out, and she stirred. They had sent her to the attic to find a dress, something suitable for the new slave girl her master had just bought. She had already been up here long enough. If they caught her daydreaming out the window, she would be beaten for sure.

She backed away from the window, and doubled slightly as a cramp struck her midsection. She waited for it to pass, grateful for the small pain. It meant another monthly, another escape from the breeding program. Undaunted, they would try again next month, and she would not be able to stop them, although she knew it was pointless to try to impregnate her.

She would have told them so, if she could still speak.

* * *

In the beginning there was darkness, and out of the darkness there came a light. And a world was born. And more worlds, thousands upon thousands.

For eons one world was barren, until the one event that was destined to occur, finally happened. From nothingness, there came life. Soon many of the worlds bore life, but the spaces between worlds was vast and the universe was at peace.

And thus ignorance was born, and on one planet the belief was raised that they were the only life created, the only life allowed. Through the ages some dared to disagree, and were persecuted for their heresies.

Until a select few made contact, and the realization was made that their life was not alone. And this realization was too horrible to be borne, and was kept hidden from the many. Those who had formerly thought themselves to be alone in the universe were made aware that they were, indeed, but one of many forms of life.

A challenge was issued, a battle was narrowly avoided, a deal was made. The inhabitants of the blue and green planet continued living, spinning their supposed solitary way through the vacuum of the universe, unaware of the other creatures waiting to descend.

The other life forms would come, and there would be no stopping them.

* * *

His new owners had only bought one other slave, and after he had climbed into the back of the truck, it had pulled away from the auction area.

He shared the space with the other male slave, and Mulder studied him surreptitiously. Everyone he met could either be an ally or an enemy; nowadays there was no in between.

He closed his eyes as they bounced along. It was a sign of his new master's wealth that he even owned a truck. Vehicles were scarce these days; most had been confiscated.

They were on the road for an hour, and were stopped twice at the checkpoints, but were waved through after only a cursory examination of the necessary papers. As befitted a proper slave, Mulder kept his head down during these exchanges, but he listened to every word. Information could, and had, come from the most unexpected places, and it did not pay to let his attention wander.

His new home was a wide spread, acres of wheat and corn spreading over the land. The truck pulled up in front of the first in a series of long, one-story buildings that served as the slaves' quarters, and stopped. A tall, lean man lounged in the doorway of the building, and as the engine on the truck died, he detached himself from the doorframe and came forward.

Mulder's heart stopped. The man approaching them was tall, bald and of military bearing, and his resemblance to Walter Skinner was astonishing. For a brief moment his hopes soared, then crashed again as his heart wrenched in his chest. He had watched Skinner die, had stood by silently as they had looted his still-warm body; he must never think he would see Skinner again.

The man who looked like Skinner stood before the truck with his arms folded, imperiously watching as Mulder and the other slave got down from the back of the vehicle. A faint sneer of contempt twisted his lips. "What did you get today?" he asked the driver of the truck. When he spoke, his voice bore the faint accent that marked him as a hybrid, although it was not as noticeable as the driver's.

"One for the south field, and one for the east," the driver said. He jerked his head toward Mulder. "That one there, I think he's the one that Andrews was selling."

The bald man's eyes narrowed. "Is that so?" He stepped toward Mulder. "How about it, boy? Did you come from Andrews' place?"

Mulder nodded once, but did not lower his eyes.

"Ask him about what he did there, Smith," the driver suggested.

Smith shot the driver a look of disgust. "Ask him?" he mocked. But he looked at Mulder contemplatively. "I heard what you did there, boy," he said. "Damn near killed a man, didn't you? Not that he didn't deserve it, I'm sure." A smile briefly played at the corners of his mouth, then vanished. Swiftly, the tall man grabbed the trailing end of Mulder's leash and wrapped it around a big fist. "It's my duty to inform you, however, that if you try anything with me or my men, I will personally make you wish you had never been born." He jerked the leash, tugging Mulder forward. "You understand that?"

Keeping his expression neutral, Mulder stared at the man. The desire to speak, to tell Smith to kiss his ass, was immensely strong, but he fought it back. There would be time enough for talk once he had found Scully. Now there was only time for silence.

Smith glared at him, and the moment stretched out. Abruptly the big man laughed. He let go of Mulder's leash. "I think we're going to have some interesting times around here," he chuckled, turning toward the driver. "Don't you?"

Without warning, one arm lashed out and a fist caught Mulder across the face. The blow was powerful, and he spun completely around before crashing to the ground with a pained grunt. Before he could think to move, Smith's boot stomped down on the leash at the base of his throat, pushing his face into the dirt. He tensed and closed his eyes, waiting for the inevitable kick, but refused to move, to defend himself.

"When I ask you something, filth, you will answer me. Is that understood?" Smith's voice was light, almost conversational.

Mulder was still. He could not have nodded now even if he'd wanted to.

The toe of Smith's other boot prodded under his chin, lifting his head. The collar around his neck bit into the soft flesh there, strangling him, and his eyes popped open. Smith nodded approvingly at this. "Do you understand me?"

Mulder managed a guttural sound that might have been an affirmative, might have been a "fuck you." Instantly Smith backed away. He glanced at the second slave, who had stood quietly through Mulder's display. "We got an understanding?" The other man nodded quickly, his head bobbing up and down.

Smith chuckled again. "Take them into the cabin. It's nearly time for the evening meal anyway. They can rest until then." He strode away, toward the main house.

The truck driver stepped forward, and only then did Mulder dare get up.

* * *

They had killed Skinner because he had resisted them, not violent resistance, or even loud resistance. Just a calm refusal....

Mulder was in the back of the wagon, letting the rhythmic clopping of the horse's hooves lull him into a half-sleep. He had never ridden in a horse-drawn vehicle before, and although the novelty of it had worn off quickly, he was content to ride along in silence.

They heard the car before they saw it, and Mulder sat up, hissing with pain as the still-new brand on his hip flared. Skinner tossed a pair of handcuffs over his shoulder. "Let me do the talking." Mulder nodded, closing the cuffs over his wrists, smearing dirt from the wagon bed on his cheeks. He sat against the side of the wagon and pasted a sullen pout on his face.

Skinner reined in the horse and allowed the car to approach. There were two men, and they got out of the car but left it idling. The horse stamped nervously, its eyes rolling as the men came forward.

"Where are you headed with that slave?" one of them asked.

"Wichita," Skinner answered. Mulder kept his head lowered, certain that his pounding heart must be audible to the two hybrids.

"Wichita don't exist anymore," the other man said. "Where are your papers?"

There was a pause as Skinner pulled out his forged papers and handed them to the men. "Where are the slave's papers?" demanded the first man. "Where did you get him?"

"He doesn't have papers yet," Skinner answered. "I found him in hiding. I'm taking him into town and selling him to whoever I find."

Silence stretched out, and then there came the distinctive sound of paper being torn. Mulder jerked his head up, unable to keep from looking.

"You're a liar." The strips of paper fluttered to the ground, then were picked up by the summer breeze and carried off. "You're coming with us. Both of you."

Skinner shook his head. "I can't do that. I'm going to Wichita." He took up the reins, and one of the men grabbed the horse's bridle.

The man who had torn up Skinner's papers stepped forward and grasped Mulder's arm. "Let's go."

Instinctively Mulder recoiled. "Get your hands off me," he spat.

The man smiled mirthlessly. "Still got your tongue, huh?" He looked at Skinner, who was staring straight ahead. "You must not have been planning to get lots of money for him, my friend." His smile faded. One hand reached under his coat and produced a pistol. "Now get down from the wagon."

"I'm going--" Skinner started calmly.

"Yes, to Wichita," the man with the gun interrupted. "We're still going there, don't worry. Only now I've got _two_ slaves to sell."

Skinner's eyes hardened, and Mulder inwardly tensed for the upcoming battle. "I am not a slave," the former FBI Assistant Director said, "and I never will be."

The pistol shot was deafening at such close range, and the horse reared in the traces, nearly dragging the man holding the bridle off his feet. Skinner fell off the wagon, landing in the dust on the opposite side, out of Mulder's view. Frozen with shock, he did not move when the pistol was aimed at him.

"What about you? Are you a slave?"

He almost said no, almost shouted his defiance and hatred at them. But at the last moment Scully's face swam before his vision, and he closed his eyes and surrendered to them.

They put him in the backseat of the car, cuffing his wrists behind him first, and shut the door. Through the dust-streaked window he watched dully as they went through Skinner's pockets, throwing his personal effects in the dirt, taking his knife.

The men were laughing as they got back into the car. The one who had shot Skinner turned around as the car drove off, and grinned at Mulder, brandishing his prize. He made a slashing motion with Skinner's knife.

Mulder closed his eyes and leaned his head against the car window. He would not let them make him cry.


	2. Chapter 2

The woman in charge of the house slaves was named Etta. One of the lucky slaves with some authority, she could still speak, and she scolded Scully soundly for being slow.

"Where have you been?" The short woman snatched the drab gray dress from Scully with an impatient snort. "Making us wait."

Scully bowed her head in mute apology. Etta turned and faced the new girl. "Here." She thrust the dress forward. "It's yours now." The new slave took it with a trembling hand, tears glistening in her eyes.

Scully felt no pity for her. Soon enough the girl would learn the way things were done, and if she didn't she would be killed.

She sat down at the large wooden table in the kitchen and returned to the coffee grinder she had abandoned in order to fetch the dress. She listened with half an ear as Etta explained things.

"Now, you'll sleep in the common room with the rest of the house slaves. You get one blanket to yourself. When it gets cold you can fight with the others over the remaining blankets. One dress, and you've already got shoes. Laundry is done when you can, but I warn you to wash often. The mistress doesn't like her slaves to stink.

"You'll get up early with the bell, and don't leave in the evening until I've released you. I expect you to be punctual and obedient, quick to follow orders, and humble in every respect. The mistress doesn't want, or need, to deal with you. That's my job. If she has to interfere, I am the one taken to task." Etta lowered her voice. "And if I get punished you can be sure I will see to it that you are, as well."

Scully risked a glance up. Etta was leaning over the new girl, who was openly crying now. She looked utterly terrified, and Scully realized that this had to be her first day as a slave.

"Can you talk?" Etta demanded. The girl shook her head no, crying harder. Speech was highly prized among the slaves; it was the only way to attain a position of authority, as Etta had. Satisfied that the girl presented no threat, Etta nodded approvingly. "Now, let me show you the house, and where you are allowed. Certain rooms are forbidden to us..." Her voice trailed off as she left the kitchen, the new slave in tow.

With Etta gone, the atmosphere in the kitchen relaxed noticeably. The tension left the slaves, and Scully was not the only one who breathed more easily. When she had first come to this spread, she had hoped to find an ally in Etta, but the woman took her job seriously. For her own sake, she had to. She could not afford to mix with the slaves; but she could not hope for freedom, either. The best Etta could achieve was to maintain the status quo, and she worked hard toward this end.

"How long you think she'll last?" rasped the cook. She was a huge black woman, capable and efficient.

Fingers were raised, indicating weeks. Two, three, one. Scully did not join in, but noticed that none of the women pointed down, signaling that they thought the new girl would last.

Her jaw clenched. She had no way of knowing, but she suspected none of them had thought *she* would last, either. But by now, she had been at the house for several months, and she was accepted without question.

Without consciously deciding so, Scully determined that the new girl would stay. She would see to it.

* * *

His sleep was abruptly broken when the door banged open, admitting the slaves from the south field. Mulder sat up hastily, blinking back his dream of Skinner's death.

"All right, you bastards! Get in there." The shadow of a man fell across the threshold, and the slaves entering the cabin had to cross through it, each of them pausing just long enough to note the new arrival. Mulder got to his feet and met their stares with one of his own.

The cabin was long, holding two rows of beds, fifteen to a row. Two wooden tables stood at the end of the room, and a row of toilets and sinks stood behind the tables. The slaves all filed in this direction, some of them sitting at the benches before the tables, some using the toilets.

Mulder made his way down the aisle between the beds and sat on the end of the nearest bench. He left a space between him and the man next to him, a surly-looking redhead. The tables were already laid with plates, glasses, and spoons. No forks or knives. Nothing stood between the tables and the toilets, and the thick smell of shit rose in the air. A few of the men who could speak threw taunts at others who could not, but even they spoke softly, as if not wishing to break the overpowering silence.

The back door of the cabin opened, and under the watchful eye of the guard, two women entered, pushing small wheeled carts bearing steaming bowls of food. They came around, laying the food in the center of the tables, pouring water into glasses. None of the men made a move toward the women, who went silently about their work with their eyes cast down.

After the women left, an agonized silence fell. No one spoke, or moved. Mulder looked up at the guard who had herded the men into the cabin. A small smile was on the man's lips, and Mulder realized that he enjoyed making the men wait to eat.

Finally the guard said, "All right boys," and the silence was immediately broken. Dozens of hands grabbed for the bowls in the middle of the table, taking what they could, sometimes snatching food from another man's hand. Glasses were knocked against, although none were overturned.

Mulder realized he had to act fast if he was to get any food. As the new fish, he also had to prove himself. To show weakness in front of this bunch was to invite even more misery upon himself.

He turned to his right and reached over the red-headed slave sitting next to him. Beyond him sat a small Hispanic man, and Mulder grabbed a hunk of bread from this man's hands.

"'Ey!" The Hispanic man cried out and lunged at Mulder.

Stuck between them, the redhead calmly acted. He reached directly in front of him, then swung his arms straight back. Both Mulder and the Hispanic man fell backwards, landing on the floor simultaneously.

Instantly the sounds of thirty men eating stopped.

Mulder leapt to his feet quickly. The guard was already moving, one hand reaching for the club hanging from his belt. The man whose bread had been stolen was slower to get up, and hung back, clearly unwilling to antagonize the guard.

Mulder had no such qualms. Before the guard could approach him, he turned and hammered the red-haired slave in the back of the neck, then gripped the man's hair and pulled him off the bench.

"You!" the guard cried, breaking into a run.

Mulder sat down in the spot the redhead had just vacated. The bread he'd stolen was already gone, he noticed.

The men across from him stiffened, and Mulder tensed, waiting for the reciprocating blow from the red-haired slave. "Stop right there!" he heard the guard cry, and then came the nauseating crack of his club striking flesh. The downed slave cried out miserably once, then was silent under the blows. Behind him, the Hispanic man still stood, cowering in fear.

"What did I say about these fights?" the guard roared. He was panting with anger and exertion. "What?"

Sensing movement, Mulder turned suddenly, and the guard stopped his swing, the club inches from Mulder's face. "You wanna watch yourself, filth," the guard said. "Being new ain't an excuse." Without looking down, he prodded the unconscious man at his feet. "Or else you'll wind up like him." He looked up at the Hispanic slave. "Sit your ass down," he snapped.

The men began eating again, a bit more subdued. No one protested when Mulder reached for a bowl of corn. The Hispanic man sat down beside him, and with shaking hands, took up his spoon.

* * *

The night brought its own silence, its own noises. Men who could not speak still grunted and wheezed, coughed and moaned. Bare feet scraped the wooden floor on the journey to the toilet.

Mulder lay awake, not wanting to fall asleep. He had been the recipient of stares all night, some of them respectful, some of them hostile. The Hispanic man who had been caught in the middle of the scuffle kept a distance between himself and Mulder, throwing the latter hasty glances throughout the evening.

There was not much to do during the evening hours, and watching the other slaves was the foremost entertainment. Those who could still speak talked amongst themselves quietly. A few communicated through hand gestures and by drawing letters on the floor with their finger. Most lay on their beds, exhausted from the day's toil.

Even though he'd slept earlier, Mulder was tired, and he fought sleep. After the evening meal, two men had picked up the unconscious slave and dragged him to a bed. The redhead had woken after another hour, and he and his two companions had spent the remainder of the evening glaring in Mulder's direction.

The night had ended when the man who'd stood watch during dinner entered the cabin and stood in the doorway. Quickly the men had climbed into their beds and drawn up the covers. Not wishing to draw attention to himself, Mulder had done the same.

"See you in the morning," snickered the guard. He closed the door and locked it, and an instant later the lights were extinguished.

His earlier dream of Skinner had brought the man to mind, and Mulder reluctantly allowed his thoughts to drift. Sleep when you can, and don't waste a moment, the older man had lectured often. It's a weakness of ours, and one they'll exploit whenever they can. Learn to sleep for only an hour at a time. Use the night hours.

Thinking of Skinner made his throat constrict, and Mulder rolled onto his side. Years ago he had learned how to fall asleep within moments, and he did so now.

A slight waft of air jerked him suddenly awake, but too late. His eyes struggled to discern the number of dark shapes hovering over him. A hand clamped itself over the lower half of his face. Furious at his assailants, at himself for falling asleep, he struggled, biting at the hand that covered his mouth. Calloused hands seized his wrists, yanked them over his head, flipped him over, pressing his face into the pillow.

Terror joined his anger as he recognized instantly what was about to happen to him. Communities of men living under enforced restraint were the same the world over. He'd managed to avoid this for years, but there was no avoiding it now.

Fingers scrabbled at the back of his pants. Warm lips closed over his ear, suckling. "No!" he cried, the sound muffled by the pillow. For a moment his cry gave them pause, and then the mouth around his ear shaped itself into a grin. Hot breath puffed into his hair.

A heavy weight settled on the backs of his legs, pinning him down, effectively ending his struggles, and he cried out again in mingled fear and rage. "Damn you! No!"

One of the men chuckled throatily. Mulder squeezed his eyes shut and sobbed. There was a split second where no one moved.

When the world started up again, he screamed.

* * *

Night was the best time.

Night was also the worst time.

She was not afforded much time during the day to think, and her brain seized eagerly on the long dark hours of the night. Half-formed images, memories, and thoughts plagued her, made her restless.

But the night also meant the oblivion of sleep, and unless it was her turn for the breeding cabin, it also meant a surcease from being yelled at, and touched by unwelcome hands.

The new girl lay in the bed across from her, and Scully heard her sniffle mightily, trying in vain to hold back tears. It was not an uncommon sound--every night at least one of the women cried herself to sleep.

The girl's name was Beth. Scully held that knowledge closely. Names were important now in a way they had never been before. A name held power, a name meant an identity, a name defined you.

She had watched Beth get ready for bed, her eyes huge in her pinched face, a dark bruise already forming on one cheek. The female house slaves slept on the third floor, under the attic, a room that was sweltering now in the summer, although undoubtedly in winter the women would freeze.

She'd approached Beth cautiously, not wanting to spook the girl, a scrap of paper clenched in her fist. Reading and writing were forbidden among slaves, and Scully knew that the children being born into slavery were being kept illiterate. But for now, paper and pencil were treasured objects, stolen at great risk, used on penalty of death.  
The white surface of the paper was now a uniform gray, smudged and wrinkled from repeated erasings. Nothing was too precious not to be erased, so as to get as much use from the paper as possible.

"Dana." She'd printed her name in small letters, then patted her chest with the palm of her hand. Beth had gaped at her, especially when Scully had offered her the pencil. Her lips had moved, but nothing came out. Eventually she'd written her name, mimicking the tiny lettering Scully had used.

Names exchanged, the two women had stared at each other, but did not smile. Scully used the rapidly dwindling eraser on the pencil to remove the marks they'd just made, and had hidden the contraband items again.

Beth had stared at her until the lights had gone out.

At the far end of the room, near the stairs leading to the second floor, Etta snored noisily. She considered it a disgrace that she had to sleep with the rest of the slaves, and never lost an opportunity to berate the women for her own plight. Scully had long since stopped listening to her.

Now she tensed, hearing the bed springs across from her creak as Beth got up. Etta woke easily, and she was always cranky when first roused. If she heard...

She could barely make out the dark shape of the girl as she glided across the floor and knelt by her bed. One hand reached out, tentatively, and touched her cheek. Scully took it and scooted over in bed, making room.

With Beth in her arms, she fell asleep quickly.

* * *

He could think of no reason why waking was bad, why returning to consciousness was to be avoided, but there it was anyway, a crazy, cringing fear that made him curl into a tight ball and keep his eyes screwed shut, refusing to see.

It hurt to move, to draw his legs up, and with the pain came memory. His heart began to race, and a small whine escaped him.

_no oh no oh god no_

The darkness behind his closed eyelids was gray, not black, and he knew that dawn had come. If this place was like all the others, a bell would ring soon, summoning the men out of sleep and into the day.

The thought of standing up, of walking, made his stomach clench and sit like a rock inside him. Waves of pain rocked him, and he groaned.

On his left someone coughed, a hacking, wet sound, and Mulder flinched. The bell went off, strident and pulsing, and reflexively he jerked upright, eyes opening. Instantly he doubled over, racked with cramps, moaning helplessly. _oh god oh scully_

Morning light streamed through the cabin door as it was opened by the guard. "Rise and shine, boys!" he called with evil glee. His eyes swept over the men, noting who lagged behind, and who looked like they might cause trouble.

Sweat broke out on his brow as Mulder forced himself out of bed. He could not stand erect, and he swayed, slightly bent over, one arm held stiffly across his waist, holding himself. From the corner of his eye he could see a crimson stain on the sheets and he turned his head, sickened by the sight.

"Let's go, let's go!" the guard called, moving into the room. The slaves had to file past him to get to the tables for the morning meal. The back door opened, and like the night before, women slaves began laying food on the table.

He had to move. He took a small step forward and stopped, paralyzed by the pain shooting through his pelvis and down his legs.

The men who slept in the beds at the far end of the room were filing past, and in another moment he would be left alone in the aisle, a sole target for the guard's anger. He sank his teeth into his lower lip and stepped forward, one pace, then two. He hobbled past the guard, last to reach the tables.

A new dilemma presented itself. He could not, dared not sit down. The pain wouldn't let him. And if he did sit, he would never get up, he'd just curl up on the bench and let the guard beat him to death for being lazy.

At the other table, the red-haired slave caught Mulder's eye. He grinned and elbowed his companion, who leered at Mulder. The ugly look infuriated him, and buoyed by his anger, he managed to gingerly lower himself onto the bench nearest the door.

The guard released them to eat, and the men reached for the food with the same aggressive eagerness as before. Mulder sat still, wincing, unable to eat at all.

* * *

Morning brought a return to work, to duties assigned by Etta. Scully was set to polishing the silver; the mistress was having a luncheon today.

She was more fortunate than most, Scully knew, in that she was owned not by the alien hybrids, but by human beings. A former Senator and his wife, a man who had helped push through Congress certain measures that had paved the way for the alien takeover. Not a full-fledged member of the Consortium, but helpful enough to have his life spared, and to be given slaves of his own.

Being owned by a human could be a mixed blessing, however. By now all slaves knew the story of the man in what had been Indiana, who had killed fifty slaves in his first two months as a landowner, so zealous had he been to show patriotism to his new government.

Landowner. Scully's hands fell still, and she looked up, gazing out the kitchen window. From the work table she sat at, she could see blue sky, with a few gray rainclouds in the distance. Occasionally, when the wind blew hard enough, the leafy top of an oak tree leaned into view.

It was all about land, someone had once told her. She could not remember who, or where, or why he had said such a thing.

Most of the cities had been destroyed, either in the initial fighting, or in subsequent, deliberate attacks. In the first couple of years, hundreds of men and women had died while dismantling the cities of the world. International boundaries were erased; technology and its comforts was placed in the hands of the few.

The earth became one huge agricultural spread. Mountains were mined, deserts made to be useful, a gift from the aliens, whose technology allowed such things to be possible.

"They want us for our natural resources," Mulder had said once.

Scully froze, going utterly still, caught in memory's thrall. For so long she had remembered nothing, and now she avidly seized on any memories her brain offered up.

"They'll mine and farm until they wear the planet out." His arm was draped over her shoulders, his fingers toying with a lock of her hair. Her head lay on his chest, and under her ear she could feel the steady, reassuring beat of his heart. They were naked.

"And if we're not all dead by then, we'll wish we were." The utter finality of his words both terrified and saddened her.

She rose up on one elbow and...

Nothing. Had she kissed him? Spoken words of false bravado, meant to instill confidence? She could not remember.

A faint rustling noise jerked her from her reverie, and she blinked, drawing back slightly when she saw Etta standing in front of her. Quick as a striking snake, Etta's hand flashed out and slapped Scully across the face.

"You lazy slut," Etta hissed. "Get back to your work, or the missy herself will flog you."

She marched from the kitchen and Scully rubbed her aching cheek.

* * *

In the beginning there was life.

And there was one life form who believed themselves to be the sole inhabitants of the universe. From this belief arose another, more powerful one: that they were the ultimate act of creation, made to rule over all other creatures.

For eons these twin beliefs went unchallenged. Until one day word came of another race, inhabiting a world not far from the dark planet of those original life forms.

Many years were spent in debate, and council. And a decision was made: that their superiority must not be questioned, that this threat must not go unanswered. Preparations were made for war.

The struggle was brief, the victory sweet. The inhabitants of the dark planet celebrated this news, as it upheld their belief in their supremacy over the universe.

And when they had finished rejoicing, they turned back to the stars, in search of more worlds to conquer. Centuries were spent subjugating the races of the universe. And then it happened that their eye fell on a small, blue planet, third from its sun.

Preparations were made for war.

* * *

_John Lee Roche_

The south field was, technically speaking, not a field at all yet. It was only half-cleared, a tangle of weeds, rocks, and assorted rubble. Under the watchful eye of a perimeter of guards, the slaves were carting off the rocks, pulling the weeds, overturning the soil, and sprinkling it with fertilizer. It was expected to be ready by next planting season.

_Donnie Pfaster_

The rocks were not heavy, and the work was mindless. Mulder trudged down one side of the field, pulling a small cart behind him. They'd re-attached his leash, hooking the free end to a ring in the front of the cart. It had two slim poles on either side, reminiscent of a rickshaw, and he pulled it by these poles. As it got heavier and heavier, the weight dragged the cart down, and the strain on his neck and shoulders grew unbearable. He took to spending more time on his knees, digging up the rocks at a slow pace, grateful for the chance to take a deep breath.

_The ship in Norway_

It had been a week since his arrival, a week since his first forcible introduction to the nighttime activites of the south slave cabin.

_Eugene Tooms_

Off to his right one of the guards shouted, and there came the unmistakable crack of the whip.

_Mothmen in Florida_

Unable to put it off any longer, he stood and gripped the poles of the cart. It was nearly full, and he had to lower his head until the collar was strangling him as he strained to get the thing moving. It lurched forward, one inch, then another. His mouth dropped open, desperately trying to pull air into his aching lungs. The muscles in his arms trembled with the effort of dragging the laden cart.

_A hospital in Rhode Island_

"You! Get that thing moving!" The lash burned along his shoulder blades, knocking him forward. Losing his balance, he let go of the poles and dropped to his knees.

_A Congressional hearing_

The whip fell again, leaving an ugly red weal along his upper arm. He struggled to his feet, reached behind him and took up the poles again.

_Fairfax Mercy Hospital_

With the guard looking on dispassionately, he got the cart moving forward. He staggered the few feet to the next group of rocks, then stopped.

She had touched him before, with compassion, with affection, with love even. Where was she now?

* * *

As she had suspected, Scully discovered Beth to be a multi-layered person. Under her soft exterior, beyond those first-night tears, there was a young woman of grit and determination. She bore the slaps and shoves, laughter and insults with a stoic reserve that Scully both approved of and respected.

But she was still young and easily impressionable. And when, a week after Beth's arrival, Scully was informed by Etta that it was her night for the breeding cabins, it was Beth who cried, not Scully.

She must have looked puzzled, for Etta drew her in. "I know it's not the right time. You just finished your monthly, didn't you?"

It was no use lying; Etta knew all their schedules. Scully nodded.

"It's not my idea, believe me," Etta said. "I overheard the missy talking. There aren't enough children being born, and they need more slaves. They're killing us off too fast." For a moment Etta's face was open and unguarded, her expression vulnerable, her use of the word "us" a rare moment of inclusion. She was approachable, then, and if she had been able, Scully would have said the words that would have made Etta into a friend, into just another woman, like them.

But she remained silent.

Etta blinked, and the moment was lost forever. She raised her voice so all the women could hear. "Anyway, I guess they figure that you all just need more chances to get pregnant. From now on you'll all go twice a month, instead of just once."

She left. Beth stood at the sink, one hand dripping sudsy water onto the kitchen floor. Tears wet her cheeks, and the look she turned on Scully was full of agonized sympathy.

There were three breeding huts behind the main house, and another three behind the cabins for the female field slaves. All six were hastily constructed buildings of plywood and tarpaper. None had any windows, and the only thing inside was a cot in the corner.

Scully walked alone to the cabin, mulling over what had happened in the kitchen. Beth's tears stood out in her mind. In this new world, people did not cry for one another, or make sacrifices for each other. In this world, her long-ago statement, "Mulder, I wouldn't put myself on the line for anyone but you" was an anachronism.

A single light bulb hung from a frayed string, and she pulled the cord, illuminating the small space. She walked over to the cot, sat on it, and closed her eyes.

It was not long before the door opened. Scully bowed her head and clasped her hands in her lap, the proper posture for a female slave. She could never be sure when a guard would enter the cabin, and it was safer not to take any chances.

But she heard only one set of footsteps. She could smell him as he came forward, a mixture of sweat and onions. She had foregone dinner tonight; obviously her stud had not.

He sat beside her on the cot and she tensed. There were two kinds of male slaves: those in it only for themselves, and those who wished to please the woman. Not too terribly different from the time before. "Rapists or seducers," Golden, the cook, had snorted once.

A hand touched her face, her hair, but nothing was said. Scully relaxed. Clearly this man was a seducer.

He tugged her to her feet. Fabric rustled as he removed his shirt. Scully toed off her shoes, unbuttoned her gray dress and let it fall to the floor, stepped out of her cotton panties.

His hands were large, but gentle, as they cupped her breasts. His thumbs flicked her nipples, and they hardened instantly. Warm lips trailed down her jaw, skipping over the collar around her neck, finding skin again on her collarbone. No tongue, just soft kisses. Down her breast, finally closing over the nipple there. She threw back her head and gasped.

It was wrong to enjoy this, but *they* had taken so much from everyone. From her. Happiness was non-existent, and physical pleasure was fleeting, to be grabbed while you could.

Calloused hands kneaded her shoulders, traced the curve of her waist, cupped her buttocks. A hand slid between her legs, seeking her, one finger entering her.

She ground her hips against his hand, growling softly in the back of her throat. Her hands came up on their own, her palms clutching his head. His hair was springy and curly, and as her hands moved through it, her fingertips remembered other hair, thick and soft, irresistible to touch, framing warm eyes.

She was lifted, placed on the cot. The mattress bounced slightly as the man stroked himself, his other hand still attempting to pleasure her. Finally he grunted and withdrew his hand, leaving her hovering on the edge of release, so frustratingly close.

As he entered her a tear escaped from her tightly closed eyes, eyes she had not once opened the entire time.


	3. Chapter 3

They blew up the Hoover Building. Not the aliens, or even the hybrids, but the Consortium. They had destroyed it with a blast from above, from one of the satellites Scully had always steadfastly denied the existence of.

They had obliterated it, and he, Spooky Mulder, had called in a bomb threat just minutes beforehand. Not soon enough--the evacuation had just begun when the building and all in it were incinerated. He, Scully, and a handful of other agents had watched in horror, crouched behind a truck parked on E Street.

He missed Washington, Mulder realized.

The drudgery and toil of the south field were unending, and his thoughts wandered often. He missed his apartment in Alexandria, fighting the inbound traffic on Route 1, the noise and bustle of downtown DC. He missed the crowds, the tourists, the people. He missed the sense of importance that came from living in the nation's capital, a city that drew thousands to it every day.

"Get moving," snapped one of the guards, brandishing his whip. Mulder looked at him and slowly turned away, recognizing the threat as empty. It was mid-summer, and far too hot for anything to lure the guards out of their shady posts.

Mulder hefted the rock in his hand, then tossed it into his cart. It was nearly empty, and it moved easily behind him as he made his way slowly down the row. Working on auto-pilot, he let his mind drift again.

There was the fun of trying to coerce Scully into getting a Big Mac at the McDonalds across from the Hoover Building; jogging on the path beside the Reflecting Pool and watching the tourists sitting on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial; fighting the crowds at Union Station for the best Indian cuisine in the city.

It all seemed like a lifetime ago. Had he really gone for cheesesteaks in Georgetown? Had he really visisted three paranoid friends at their grungy office? Had he driven a car, ridden a subway, worn a tie, watched TV?

He had done all these things, he had done none of them.

Somewhere behind him a whip cracked, and a slave cried out. Mulder closed his eyes. Whatever he had done in his life before this, he would never do again...

He had never dreamed it would the be last day he'd ever see the city.

Missing for an undetermined length of time, he had woken to find himself on a bench in Folger Park. Coat, badge, wallet, money, phone, all present and accounted for. Only his gun and some time missing.

It was much later that Scully would find the needle puncture on the inside of his arm, and by then it was nearly healed over. All he knew that morning was that, within a few minutes of waking, he was filled with a sense of overwhelming dread, and an urgent desire to find Scully.

He'd hailed a taxi, urged the driver on to breakneck speed, gotten out of the car at the Hoover Building while it was still moving. Halfway down the steps to the basement, following an instinct he didn't understand, he'd phoned in a bomb threat to the FBI switchboard. He'd run the rest of the way to the basement office, crying, "We have to move, Scully!" without knowing why.

And she'd only looked at him, puzzled and confused, yet relieved to see him again. He'd grabbed her hand and yanked her from the room, breathing a silent prayer as a strident alarm went off in the building.

He had never remembered where he had been for those days he had been missing, never learned how he had known what was coming. And in the end, it hadn't mattered.

The FBI was not the only government institution destroyed that day. The Capitol, the White House, the CIA, the Supreme Court; the Kremlin; Buckingham Palace, Whitehall, 10 Downing Street; the major centers of power in every nation.

Only the Pentagon was spared.

They had joined the long line of refugees fleeing the city, scared and too shocked to do anything but walk forward mindlessly. He had kissed her for the first time on the Key Bridge, heading into Virginia and what they had hoped was freedom.

* * *

"Scully."

She couldn't see anything. There was nothing but black, shot through with reddish-orange bolts of color.

"Scully, look at me." The voice was calm and reassuring. Behind it were screams and crashes, screeches of metal and wails of fear.

"Scully, look at me. It will be all right." Soft lips covered hers, warm breath mingled with her own. The world did a slow tilt and she swayed and was caught by a pair of strong arms. Her eyes opened and suddenly she could see.

The room was bathed in the gray light of early morning. On either side of her, women snored and wheezed in dream-filled sleep.

Scully closed her eyes again. This was not the Key Bridge, she was not nearly incoherent with shock, and Mulder was not kissing her. This was what had once been Illinois, she was painfully aware of her situation, and Mulder was gone forever.

The dream she'd had was commonplace by now, but the heartache it produced was fresh and new every time. In the dream, she never saw the city burning, although she knew it had happened. She never dreamed of the bodies that had littered the streets, although she knew they had existed. And she never saw Mulder kissing her, although she knew that he had.

Mulder....

A sound escaped her, and she pressed her lips together tightly, damming back further vocalizations. It had been years since she had cried, and she was dismayed to feel the tingling behind her eyes that was a harbinger of tears.

Oh, God, but it hurt. One slim, finely muscled arm came up and covered her eyes, pressing into the sockets, forcing back the tears. God, she didn't want to cry. Lights flashed behind her eyelids, a result of the pressure there. Even so, she could see him, but only in pieces, never as a whole.

His arm around her shoulders, guiding her forward...hazel eyes welling up with tears...the broad curve of a shoulder...shouting, taking command of a ragtag group of refugees....pulling the trigger on a long-range rifle...kicking a clump of dirt over a grave....kissing her during humid summer nights....walking away from her, going on patrol....

It was the last time she'd seen him, watching as he walked off, the rifle slung across his shoulders, tanned and hardened by grief and the elements of survival. Not quite an hour later the shelter had been set upon, the people clustered there given the choice of death or life in slavery.

He had promised once to find her, if it should come to that. She had believed him when he'd said the words, and she had believed it then, a gun barrel pressed into her temple. He loved her and he would find her.

And so she had chosen life.

* * *

In the beginning they were unchallenged. The vanquishment of the universe continued unabated. New technologies were created and utilized, new populaces enslaved until they could be fully assimilated into society. New worlds were made useful, and entire villages emigrated to these new planets, creating new cities, moving ever onward; until the original home of their race was a lost and forgotten dead stone, lodged in a dark corner of the universe.

And so it went for aeons, until the creatures came upon that small blue planet, spinning peacefully in its solar system on the fringes of a spiral galaxy. A planet that met them not with resistance or welcome, but with negotiation.

There was much consternation amongst them, then, and it was decided to send out an emissary to meet with the chosen delegation from the blue and green planet. We will hand you the planet, this delegation said, if you will allow us to rule with you.

Thus, hybridization was begun, visitations made, an agreement reached.

The people of the blue planet did not know it, but their time was limited. While the creatures from the stars readied their plans for invasion, the planet continued its stately march around the sun.

And inevitably, the time came.

* * *

Nights were the worst, when he lay in bed, fighting the exhaustion of the day's work, dreading sleep and the dreams it brought. They varied from night to night, but they always came, forcing him to revisit the horrors of his life. They ranged from the old and familiar , to the new and terrifying .

Mulder rolled onto his side, stubbornly keeping his eyes open, swallowing back a yawn. Someone shuffled past, on their way back from a particularly noxious session on the toilet. Next to him, the Hispanic man whose bread he had stolen snored fuzzily.

 _Learn to sleep for only an hour at a time. Use the night hours,_ Skinner had once instructed him. _Much of their understanding of us is stereotyped. They don't expect us to be awake and alert at night._

He had found the former Assistant Director after weeks of wandering from one hiding place to another, nearly incoherent with grief. It had been a year, long enough for the a Resistance to have been formed, long enough for the war veteran to have risen to a high rank within the small organization.

Resistance. Mulder grimaced in the dark. There really hadn't been any resistance, despite the fancy titles and minor skirmishes. The number of humans who had escaped death or slavery was small, and of those, not many had been capable of fighting. Watching the destruction of their cities, the murder and enslavement of their families, the shattering of every illusion they had held dear--it had all combined to render most people dull and vacant with shock.

Still, enough of them had survived, mentally sound, able and willing to at least attempt to take back their planet. Walter Skinner had been in charge of just such a group, when Mulder had literally stumbled upon them.

Mulder smiled now, remembering. He had--

He had a split second's warning, his eyes spying the three dark shapes that detached themselves from the night's shadows. They descended on him with appalling swiftness.

There was time only to fling out an arm, to catch one in the throat as he bent down, fingers splayed, not even enough time to make a fist. The first attacker fell back, and when the other two seized him, Mulder screamed as loud as he could.

The men froze briefly, and Mulder used his advantage. He rolled to the side, kicking free of the sheets, trying to get off the bed. If they caught him laying down he didn't stand a chance.

Rough hands grabbed for him, and he jerked an arm away before a hand could enclose it. Around him the other slaves were waking, roused both by the noise, and by the astonishing sight of someone actually fighting back.

He'd made it to the side of the bed when fingers closed in his hair, yanking his head back. He flailed out, desperately trying for anything he could reach, screaming continuously. A hand dropped over his mouth and he bit down, his teeth closing over flesh. Instantly warm blood poured into his mouth, gagging him.

Fists struck his chest, his abdomen. His right arm was pinioned, the death-grip on his hair never slackened. "No!" he howled, fighting harder.

The lights of the cabin abruptly flared into life, and the suddenness with which he was dropped was disorienting. The main door opened, admitting the night guard.

Mulder was beyond caring. They had tried to rape him again, and for that he would kill them. He launched himself at the nearest slave, the same red-haired man who Mulder had tangled with during his first meal in this place. The man had his back to him, and Mulder laced his fingers together into one fist and struck the man in the kidneys, driving him forward.

He fell off the bed with his momentum, he and the slave collapsing together onto the floor into a heap. The redhead shouted in pain as he fell, twisting around, trying to hit Mulder.

"Dammit! You sons-of-bitches!" The guard's booted feet came into Mulder's view, but he ignored them. Taking his last chance, he pistoned his fist into the redhead's face, relishing the crunch under his fingers as the man's nose broke.

He didn't see the club descending. All he knew was that the world suddenly went white and he could not breathe. The guard struck him again across the shoulders, and he crashed to the floor.

With Mulder down, the guard felled the other slaves, then stood over them, his face black with anger. "What in fuck's name do you think you're doing?" he shouted. "You wanna get killed?"

From the corner of his eye Mulder saw the other slaves watching with mingled delight and fear, mouths open, eyes glittering. In the bed next to him, the Hispanic man looked at him with something akin to sympathy.

The guard reached down and tugged Mulder to his feet. "You," he spat. "I don't suppose you had anything to do with this."

Years of practice kept him silent, but he shook his head, negating the charges.

"Yeah, right," the guard snorted. He turned and faced the others: the red-haired man kneeling on the floor, and the other two standing on the other side of the bed. "Get back into your beds. If I see one of you so much as look in my direction, your ass is mine. Got it?"

The three men slunk off, their heads down. One of them nursed his bitten hand, cradling it against his chest. None of them dared to look up.

The guard pulled Mulder with him toward the door. At the exit he turned again. "Anybody else got anything they feel like doing?" He glared at the slaves, who uniformly cowered back. "That's what I thought," he snapped.

Mulder made no protest as the guard shut and locked the door, extinguishing the cabin's lights. "You really fucked up this time," the guard said. "Did you ever." He walked Mulder over to a spot to the right of the cabin. A four foot square piece of metal grating lay flush with the ground, and the guard bent down and lifted this. "Get in."

Reluctantly, Mulder dropped his eyes, staring into the hole under the grating. It was not very deep, and was lined with concrete on the floor and all four walls. A iron ring was bolted into one of the walls and a chain dangled from this. At the end of the chain swung a pair of iron manacles.

"Go on, get in. You earned it." The guard sounded amused, and Mulder realized there would be no understanding from this man, no defending himself. Anger at the injustice of it all rose up in him and he glared at the guard, refusing to move. The other man reached for his club again. "What, you want more of this?"

Sick with frustration, Mulder stepped down into the hole. There was room enough only to kneel, and the unfinished concrete scraped at his knees. The guard seized his wrists and twisted them up between his shoulder blades. A quick metallic snap, and he was cuffed to the wall, doubled over and utterly helpless.

"Enjoy the rest of your stay," laughed the guard. "Maybe if you're lucky they'll flog you early in the morning and you won't have to stay here for long."

The iron grating dropped shut with a clang. Mulder closed his eyes and set his teeth to endure.

* * *

"I'm off." The cook, Golden, hung her apron on the hook beside the stove and lumbered out of the kitchen. Scully listened as her heavy tread moved down the hall toward the back stairs.

She was alone. Privacy was rare, and she savored this moment. Soon enough Etta would return after making her final inspection of the house, but for now, Scully had the kitchen to herself.

Despite the circumstances which had brought her here, Scully enjoyed the kitchen, and all its connotations. As a young child, she had dogged her mother's footsteps as the woman baked and cooked for her family. When she had gotten older, she had forsaken the confines of the house for the outdoors, playing with Bill, Jr. and Melissa. But she had always come back to the one room in the house that always spoke of family.

In college she had made do with a hot plate, but after getting her own place, she had turned the kitchen into a warm and inviting area. China plates hung on the walls, wine bottles stood on counter tops, and the room was scrubbed daily.

Outside the window, a cricket chirped its night song and Scully sighed softly. Her own apartment had been the scene of too many terrors, from Eugene Tooms and Duane Barry, to the violent death of Melissa. In the kitchen she could sit at the wooden table, wrap her hands around a steaming mug of coffee, and relax. No other room in her apartment had been able to calm her so well; not even the bedroom, where she lay awake for hours at night, plagued by doubts and fears.

The cricket's song abruptly died as it flew off. Scully envied it, its ability to fly away whenever it wanted, go wherever it wanted, to make noise and sing. She turned away from the window.

Her eyes lit on the party trays laying on the counter. The mistress was occupying herself the only way she knew how, by having yet another luncheon tomorrow; Golden had spent all afternoon making snacks and hors d'oeuvres for the affair. Many of the morsels were sweet, and under the plastic wrap that covered them, they looked extremely inviting.

Her legs had a will of their own as they carried her forward. Her hand ignored her brain's screaming protest as it lifted the edge of the plastic wrap. Her fingers shook with anticipation as they raised a perfectly round amaretto ball to her lips.

Scully closed her eyes as the forbidden tastes of chocolate and rum filled her mouth. All too soon, the candy was gone, and she popped another one in her mouth, this time savoring the dark bliss, making it last longer.

An outraged gasp made her eyes pop open. "You little thief!" Etta cried, shock written all over her face. "How could you!"

Scully swallowed hard, the remaining chocolate sliding down her throat in a wooden lump. She shook her head no, held out her hands in a mute plea.

Etta waited for her to approach, then slapped her, hard. Scully's head flew sharply to the side, and a small grunt escaped her. Before she could recover from the blow, Etta grasped her arm and marched her from the kitchen.

Sudden fear filled her. She had never been beaten, not in all the time she had been a slave, but now she had been caught stealing, and stealing from the missy, which was the worst of all. She pulled back and tried to remove her arm from Etta's firm grip, and Etta struck her again.

Her ears rang as Etta flung open the door to a small closet off the pantry. An extra broom, mop and bucket stood in the corner, all clustered around a drain in the floor. Scully was shoved inside the cubicle and without a word, Etta shut the door.

The door didn't have a knob on the inside, and the darkness in the closet was absolute. For a few minutes she could hear Etta moving around in the kitchen, but eventually the older woman left, and she was alone.

Scully drew up her knees and wrapped her arms around them. She closed her eyes and laid her cheek on her crossed forearms. Cautiously, she began sucking in her cheeks, searching for the last taste of chocolate.


	4. Chapter 4

Only the heat of day told him when morning came.

Beyond thought, beyond pain, beyond caring, he only hoped dully that death, if it came, would be short and swift.

At some point during the everlasting night he had lapsed into a bout of useless screaming, unable to bear the agony in his shoulders and twisted arms. The impaired circulation had finally caused the limbs to go mercifully numb, and he had fallen unconscious then.

Now he could hear a car engine sputter and die, male voices shouting crisply. Perhaps they were assembling to witness his punishment, come from afar to watch this rebellious slave be whipped for his impudence.

The iron grating over his prison creaked as it opened, and suddenly the sunlight was no longer criss-crossed with bars of shadow. The floor vibrated as a man stepped into the hole. Metal clanked on metal as the manacles around his wrists were opened, and Mulder fell face-first to the floor.

"Come on," the man said. Dimly Mulder recognized Smith's voice, the man who he had thought was Skinner upon arriving. Smith seized his upper arm and pulled him out of the hole. Mulder cried out hoarsely, his face contorting as already abused muscles shrieked at this harsh treatment.

"Shut up," Smith ordered. He half-carried, half-dragged Mulder over to where a line of slaves was forming. His leash was attached to his collar, falling across his chest to his waist. "Now stand still, and don't move. *They're* here."

Smith walked away, and Mulder swayed on his feet, trying desperately to lock his knees and stay upright. His head fell forward and he clamped his teeth against the moans of pain that threatened to escape him at the renewed blood flow through his arms.

On either side of him, the slaves shuffled their feet nervously, hands touching anything and everything, heads swiveling around. The car he'd heard earlier was parked in front of the cabins, and two men sat inside it; two more stood next to it.

Mulder did nothing. It was easier just to stand still, with the hot sun beating upon his bowed head. Let them think he was being a model of humility, the proper slave.

Smith was barking orders again, telling this filth to bow his head, that maggot to lower his eyes. A whip cracked once, carrying over the sounds of men shuffling their feet and of leather leashes creaking and shrinking in the hot sun.

"All right, then." The man who spoke had a cultured voice, and the accent that marked him as a hybrid was nearly non-existent.

Smith and the other guard moved forward. Mulder lifted his head slightly, just enough to be able to follow them with his eyes.

The man on the end of the line was tall and thickly muscled. He could have killed Smith with one powerful blow, but he made no move to defend himself as Smith reached up and yanked open the man's jaws.

Cold sweat suddenly stung his skin. Oh, God. They were checking to see who could still speak, who still had his tongue.

The realization was quick to spread, and several of the men jerked and looked about frantically, gauging escape possibilities. Reflexively, Mulder raised his head and his eyes swept the area. He could not, would not allow them to drag him away, force that red-hot knife into his mouth, forever silence him.

"How long have you been with this spread?" another man asked, his question directed at Smith. Awkwardly, his left arm held stiffly across his chest, this man pushed himself off the car's bumper, where he had been leaning.

Mulder felt the blood drain from his face. The sudden roaring in his ears prevented him from hearing the man finish speaking. Every nerve in his body sang with the urge to run forward, run and kill, kill this man. And then the man looked up, looked at him, and Mulder found himself staring at Alex Krycek.

Smith must have replied, for Krycek nodded. "Long enough to know that this inspection should have been made months ago."

"We've been very busy," Smith said stiffly. He clearly did not like being questioned.

"That's no excuse," said the first man.

"Here, I'll help you." Krycek spoke tersely. He stepped up to a man on Mulder's right

Smith shrugged. "Whatever you want."

"Open up," Krycek demanded.

The slave stood still, shaking with fear. Mulder knew the man could talk and he watched helplessly as Krycek swiveled from the hip, then lunged forward, his prosthetic hand burying itself in the slave's abdomen. The man grunted and doubled over, and when he did Krycek seized his lower jaw with his good hand and twisted.

It took only a split second. "You can take this one," Krycek said lazily.

The other two men, who so far had stood silently beside the car, moved forward. "No!" The slave's panicky wail split the morning air. "No, please, please don't! I have money, I can give you money, please don't do this!"

Silently the two hybrids dragged off the screaming slave. Down the line on Mulder's left, Smith chuckled. "Always the same."

Three men stood between him and Krcyek. Mulder fought terror, concentrated on anger.

Two men. Smith found a slave who still had his tongue and jerked him out of line. He was hauled away on his knees, begging for mercy.

One man. He was going to kill Krycek, Mulder decided. He could not stop them from committing the final horror on him, but he was fairly certain that he could kill Krycek first.

Then he was there, with nothing standing between the two men. Mulder raised his head, hating the slight flush that colored his cheeks. For a moment Krycek stared back at him, then his hand flashed out, slapping Mulder hard. "Lower your eyes when you look at me, filth," he said.

The side of his face flamed hot, and he knew Krycek's handprint had imprinted his cheek. He dipped his head, then slowly, deliberately lifted his chin, glaring hate and defiance at his tormentor, baring his teeth in a mixture of pain and rage.

Krycek backhanded him, and when he swayed on his feet, grabbed the trailing end of his leash, twisting it and yanking downward. Already off balance from the blow, Mulder fell heavily to his knees. Instinctively his hands tried to come up to ease the choking pressure on his throat, but his arms were leaden, pain-filled weights, and he could not lift them.

Krycek's dark head leaned in, pressing close until his forehead nearly touched Mulder's. "Answer me," he hissed in a barely audible whisper. "Can you still talk?" His grip on the leash slackened just enough to allow Mulder to drag in a burning breath. Krycek shook him. "Answer me."

"Fuck you," Mulder snarled, his voice strangled, his lips not moving.

His entire body was hauled upward as Krycek yanked on the leash, forcing him to follow or choke to death. Muttering to himself, the younger man dropped the leash, then, amazingly, walked on.

Finally able to breathe, Mulder stood, frozen. He waited for Krycek to turn around, to suddenly cry mockingly, "Oh, I forgot! Here's one!". He waited for the guards to grip his arms and drag him away, toward the hut behind the cabins, where already the unfortunate slaves screamed as their tongues were cut out.

It didn't happen. Krycek moved down the line, finishing up at the same time Smith did. Between them they had removed nearly a dozen slaves.

"This is disturbing," the first man said. "You should be monitoring them closely when they arrive. We shouldn't be finding this many."

Chastened, Smith said nothing, but the set of his shoulders belied his relaxed posture. As one, the slaves tensed, knowing they would be made to pay for Smith's scolding.

"Take them back inside," Krycek said, by way of dismissal. "I'd like to inspect the crop."

The slaves filed into the cabin, a disheartened group, cringing at the horrific last screams voiced by their peers. Smith closed one meaty fist around Mulder's upper arm. "Not you," he said. "You still haven't been punished." He snickered, pulling Mulder forward with him. "I don't think we've had the pleasure of showing the authorities a flogging before. This should be fun."

Mulder swallowed hard. His eyes met Krycek's briefly as he walked past. Smith opened the metal grating over the punishment cell, and shoved Mulder. "Get in," he said, already bored again.

He closed his eyes and stepped in, kneeling down, unresisting as Smith jerked his wrists behind him and shackled them to the wall. The metal grate dropped back down with a clang. "See ya later, filth." Smith waggled his fingers at him grotesquely, then he was gone, and only the blue sky filled the spaces between the iron bars.

* * *

The night was interminable, eerily silent. Inured to the sounds of a dozen other women around her, Scully found the stillness terrifying at first, then oddly comforting.

_I used to sleep like this,_ she thought in wonder. She closed her eyes, let her head fall back against the wall. She tried to imagine what it would be like to sleep here in the closet, with no sounds to disturb her slumber, nobody crying or snoring, no Etta in the room to keep even sleep a tension-filled activity.

The thought was tempting, but Scully realized she was enjoying the silence too much to sleep. She wanted to stay awake, relish every moment of the night. In the morning she would be beaten, punished for stealing, and all the women would cluster around her, bring her water and soup and bathe her whip weals, brush her hair back from her forehead, cluck to her soothingly.

But right now there was only herself, alone in the quiet dark.

Afraid of being hurt, she didn't want to think of the morning and the pain it would bring. Yet she didn't regret eating the candies. They were her small token of defiance, her tiny show of resistance to a world gone mad--hell, she had eaten them because she had *wanted* to.

The silence stretched out, became oppressive. In the blackness her mind worked overtime and conjured up images of horror. She tried not to look at them, tried not to think.

A sigh escaped her. There were times she thought she might have made a mistake; that choosing a life of slavery had been an error of the gravest magnitude.

At the time, staring down a gun barrel, she had felt there could be no decision, really. Mulder had said he would find her; she had confidence in his ability to do just that. And a life in slavery was better than no life at all...

"What do you say?" the man growled at her. A paid mercenary, he and others like him searched the countryside for bands of refugees, for people in hiding.

She could clearly remember her fear, and a bitter smile now crossed Scully's face. How naive she had been, thinking she understood fear in all its guises!

She had jumped at the sound of a gunshot--either someone choosing death, or having the choice made for them. There was no time to wonder who it was, no time to mourn the loss of a friend.

"I don't want to die," she said calmly.

The man in front of her grunted and waved her off to his left. She walked over to the small group of people huddled there. Some of them were crying, but most only looked shell-shocked, unable to comprehend what was happening.

Scully made herself watch. The remaining people were either killed or herded over to the cluster she stood in. The building, once a large warehouse, was set afire.

One woman beside her gasped. "My pictures!" she wailed, burying her face in hands gnarled with age.

Scully did not move to comfort her. Already she could feel herself toughening, sealing herself off from her emotions. She had few personal effects in the warehouse, nothing that held any value. Just a change of clothes, a toothbrush, a comb with missing teeth--all objects she had scrounged up on the journey here.

No, she'd owned nothing but memories, and fire could not destroy those. Memories of her and Mulder laying together in the tiny space they shared, curtained off from prying eyes by blankets and wires strung from the ceiling. Memories of late-night whispers and murmurs, kisses and caresses.

Fifteen miles to the east, the city of Atlanta lay in man-made ruins. She and Mulder had skirted their way around the rubble, meeting up with other people, others as scared and hungry as they themselves were. Nearly a dozen of them had walked west, leaving the rubble of the city behind, following Interstate 20. After a day of walking, they had found the warehouse, already populated and made habitable by a small group of people.

They were large enough now to have to actively avoid detection, and on Mulder's urging, two-man patrols began surveying the area. Their location was ideal: far enough from the destruction, but close enough to the remains of the city to forage for food and clothing. Shifts were rotated, each person contributed what they could to the small but ever-growing community.

That was the day. At night, she and Mulder made love, striving to mute their passion; their love was still new enough to hold the power to embarrass them. When they were finished, she placed a finger over his lips when Mulder talked of leaving, of moving on. Excited by rumors of a Resistance, he wanted to join them.

Tired of hiding, but even more tired of running, she would not hear of it. It had taken them months to work their way through Virginia and then southwest toward Atlanta. The time they'd spent on the road had been fraught with peril, and now she relished the relative peace of having a place to stay, despite its crudity and temporary status.

Mulder was out on patrol when the raid came. As Scully and the other new slaves were rounded up, she selfishly prayed that he was dead, that his patrol had been set upon by the men who now stood before her. Better death than to come back and find her gone.

She climbed into the flatbed truck and stood at the side rail, there being no room to do otherwise. When they had all gotten in, one of the men climbed on, pointing his rifle in their direction. They had all surged back, creating space between themselves and the gunman, compressing their numbers into an impossibly narrow space. Scully found herself wedged between a teenage boy and the old woman who had wept over the loss of her photos.

The tailgate was closed with a bang, and the truck started forward with a lurch.

Scully bit the inside of her cheek and told herself that she would survive.

Noise in the kitchen woke her, and blearily, Scully realized she had slept, after all. Her bladder was uncomfortably full, and her neck ached from sleeping in a sitting position. Tentatively, she swallowed, testing the dryness of her throat. She was hungry, too, but she had been hungry before, and the gnawing in her belly was nothing new.

The women continued their morning routine, and Scully waited.

She waited for a long time before she realized Etta was not going to let her out.

* * *

The day's heat lingered on into the night, and he knew the change only by the lack of light. Only semi-conscious, lucid thought didn't seem worth the effort. His tiny prison reeked of urine and sweat, blood and suffering.

The creaking of the gate opening roused him slightly, and Mulder struggled to gather his wayward thoughts.

"Shit," a voice swore softly. The man who'd spoken stepped into the pit and fumbled with the blood-encrusted manacles around Mulder's wrists. "Are you awake? Can you hear me?"

It was a trap, he mustn't answer, he shouldn't answer. But oh, how he wanted to beg them to take him out and beat him, to just kill him, anything but leave him in here for one more minute. The iron around his wrists clicked open and he fell with a pain-filled groan.

"Shhh!" the man hissed. "They'll hear us."

Something...he knew that voice. His mind was sluggish, nearly as immobilized as his body was by the torture it had undergone. Thinking was *so* hard...

A sharp tug on his leash. "Lift your head," the man whispered. He tried, but his neck muscles were frozen, incapable of raising the hundred-ton weight that was his head. "Come on, Mulder."

That voice! He recognized it now. From deep within anger sparked, and he found the strength to lift his head, turn it to his left. His eyes searched the dark, looking for and finally finding Krycek.

"Here. Drink this." Plastic clicked against his teeth, and cool liquid sloshed over his chin. Some of it dribbled into his mouth, and instantly Mulder was overcome by raving thirst. He drank greedily as the water poured into his mouth, certain that he could never get enough. When the cup was pulled away he groaned in frustration.

"No more. You'll get sick," Krycek whispered. He tugged Mulder's leash again. "Come on."

He swallowed painfully, hiccupped once as his stomach tested the water, then decided it could stay. "What..." There was no point in keeping silent in front of Krycek; the man already knew his secret.

"We're getting out of here." The pull on his leash was more insistent. "*Now*, Mulder. Can you stand?" The idea was laughable. He'd long ago lost all feeling in his body. "Mulder!"

"More...water..." He closed his eyes as Krycek sighed irritably, but the cup was brought to his lips once more and he drank until the liquid was gone.

Krycek tossed the empty cup away. "No more fucking around, Mulder. We have to get out of here."

The circulation was beginning to return to his limbs, and he had to force his eyes open. "Where are we going?" he croaked.

Krycek shrugged, only one shoulder moving. "Who the hell cares?" He jerked the leash. "Come on."

Mulder didn't move. "Why are you doing this?"

"Dammit, Mulder!" Anger was evident in Krycek's voice, but he kept it low, a hissed whisper. "I--"

"I can't get up," Mulder said softly.

Before it even began, Krycek's tirade came to an abrupt halt. "What?" He gazed at Mulder piercingly. "How long have you been in there?"

"All day. Since last night."

"Jesus," the younger man breathed. He dropped the leash and reached down with his good hand. "Here."

Mulder tried to reach up, grasp the offer of help, but his arms refused to obey his brain's commands. Realizing the situation, Krycek gripped Mulder's upper arm. "Take a deep breath," he murmured, then yanked upward.

Mulder sank his teeth into his lower lip to keep from crying out as his body was pulled upright. His knees buckled and he fell. Swiftly Krycek dropped his arm, catching Mulder about the waist; he braced one foot behind the other and let the older man sag against him. "Okay?"

Mulder nodded. "Just...give me...a second." His eyes were tightly shut to block out the sickly revolving world. Slowly he became aware of the warm body beneath his and he pushed away, staggering backwards. "Let go of me."

Krycek chuckled. "I'm not going to rape you, Mulder."

Involuntarily he stiffened, his breath cutting off in his throat. Krycek watched him through narrowed eyes. "Guess somebody beat me to it, huh?" He gave that one-armed shrug again, turned and left the underground prison.

Mulder closed his eyes and took deep breaths, deliberately not thinking about Krycek's words or the awful memories they summoned up. He would not think about it, he would *not*...

"Mulder." Krycek leaned over the hole. "We've got to move. Can you get out by yourself?"

He could. Come hell or high water, he could. Awkwardly he climbed out of the hole and stood up. One thing was certain: he'd not let Krycek touch him again.

* * *

The door squeaked as it opened, and Scully jerked upright. She'd passed most of the day in a half-doze, never really falling asleep. If she slept, she might miss when Etta came to let her out.

A rectangle of light fell into the dark room, then was blotted out as Etta stood in the doorway. The woman wrinkled her nose at the acrid odors of urine and sweat. "Have you learned your lesson?" she asked.

Scully nodded and made an affirmative noise. The soft tissues of her throat felt cracked and sore, and it hurt just to make that small sound. Earlier, she'd been forced to urinate over the drain in the floor, a humiliating, messy experience. Even so, she'd sorely resented the loss of bodily fluids, knowing she was becoming dehydrated.

"Do you understand what you did wrong?" Etta asked.

Scully nodded again, unable to keep from wondering just how on earth she was supposed to respond. Even if she didn't know why she had been punished, she certainly couldn't *tell* Etta that.

"You must never try that again," Etta cautioned. "If you had only had some patience, you would have learned that Golden saved some of the sweets for the girls." Disapproval colored her tone, but Scully knew the older woman well enough to know that she preferred subtle indiscretions like Golden's over Scully's overt defiance.

Etta stood aside. "Wash yourself and go to bed. Tomorrow you will clean this room thoroughly, understand?"

She was suddenly furious, but she forced herself to nod again, bow her head. _Would it kill her to be nice to me? We're alone now, nobody will think she's a slave-sympathizer._

As she passed Etta, the housekeeper spoke. "I know you think I've been hard on you."

Scully raised her head and stared at Etta, blue eyes flashing. Etta took a small step back, her hip pressing into the wall. "But they would have beaten you in front of everyone, otherwise. I saved you." Her look became sly, conspiratorial. "I told no one about your stealing. No one needs to know." Now Etta looked positively smug. "And unless you give me a reason, I won't tell anyone."

In her life as Dana Scully, no one would have threatened her like this and gotten away with it. But that woman had had confidence and assertiveness on her side. That woman had had a job as an FBI agent and had carried a gun.

Most importantly, that woman had been able to speak.

Seething with rage, Scully lowered her gaze and bowed her head meekly. She nodded again and made the sign for thanks, a gesture they all knew.

"Good girl," Etta murmured.

As she climbed the stairs to the third floor, Scully vowed to herself that one day she would have her revenge.


	5. Chapter 5

They had traveled by car during the night, driving without lights, going miles out of their way to avoid the checkpoints. Krycek had driven silently, the grim look on his face discouraging any questions.

That was fine with Mulder. He had lain on the back seat, biting his arm to stifle his moans as circulation had finally returned to his cramped limbs. Krycek had placed a thermos of cool water on the floor of the back seat within Mulder's reach, and he had drunk from it every now and then, wondering at the Russian's aid.

He had slept some, to his amazement, waking when the car had stopped. Moving a bit stiffly, now he followed Krycek out of the car. Rosy light colored the eastern sky. The land was more barren, more open than where he had come from. Mulder guessed they were somewhere south of the spread he had been living on, in Texas, perhaps. Nothing stood between the land and the sky; the horizon was a pure, unbroken line.

"We're leaving the car. We'll get as far off the roads as we can," Krycek said. "Then we'll stop. We'll travel only at night."

"Where are we?" he asked.

Krycek pointed off to the right. "I think I-45 is over that way." He gazed musingly into the distance. "Or what used to be I-45," he amended.

Mulder couldn't stop himself. "It still is the highway," he said forcefully. "And it will be again."

Krycek's laugh was hollow and empty. "You never give up, do you, Mulder?"

He raised his chin and looked squarely at the Russian but said nothing. Surprisingly, Krycek seemed to approve. He grunted and nodded.

They stood for a moment longer, then Krycek walked back to the car. He opened the trunk, removed a knapsack and rummaged through it. He came up with something metal and held it out to Mulder. "Put these on."

The morning sunlight glinted off the handcuffs dangling from Krycek's hand. Looking at them, Mulder felt a sense of dread uncurl in the pit of his stomach. Not for the first time, he thought that escaping with this man had not been the brightest idea in the world.

Krycek continued to hold out the cuffs, not threatening, but offering.

Mulder swallowed hard. "No."

Krycek only looked exasperated. "Mulder."

"No." His heart was pounding. Krycek walked toward him and Mulder waited for the threat, for the growled "then I'll put them on you," but the younger man was still.

"Then you put us both at risk. And if they catch us, they won't bother sending us into slavery. They'll just kill us."

It was probably true, Mulder realized. And it was just like Krycek not to waste any opportunity to point out that it was his ass on the line, too.

"So what's the story, then?" he asked. He still made no move to accept the handcuffs.

"You'll have to be an escapee. I've caught you and am bringing you back for a reward." Mulder snorted; he'd already lived through a botched attempt at using that line. "I know the right things to say," Krycek continued, "but I may have to hurt you to be convincing."

"Only to make it look good, of course," Mulder sneered.

"What the hell do you want?" Krycek cried. "We can't exactly say we're two buddies out for an invigorating walk! Open your eyes, Mulder. This is the way things are now. If you want to survive--"

"You've got to learn to live with the rats," Mulder muttered. He shook his head, then reached out and snatched the cuffs from Krycek. Before he could re-consider, he closed them around his wrists. "Happy now?" he snapped.

"You think I'm getting my thrills from this?" Krycek snarled back. "It's me they'll be hunting. They don't give a shit about you. You're just a slave. Me, I'm a traitor."

"Oh, stop it, you're breaking my heart." Mulder turned his back on Krycek and walked a few steps away, trying to ignore the bite of steel on his flesh.

Behind him Krycek's feet crunched on the hard-packed earth, then there came more sounds of him searching through the knapsack. "Mulder."

He refused to turn around.

" _Mulder._ " The voice was insistent.

Grudgingly, Mulder turned and faced the man who had helped him escape, the man who was still his bitterest enemy. "What?"

Krycek held up a small, black object. It looked like a pager, the kind Scully had used when she had first joined the X-Files. "You know what this is?"

"Your garage door opener?"

The corner of Krycek's mouth moved in an almost-smile. "With a touch of this button..." his thumb hovered over a raised white knob, "...I can send 200 volts through your body, from the right side of those cuffs. Not enough to kill you--just enough to stun you."

Mulder's gaze dropped to the circlets of steel. He could see nothing special about the right cuff, but he did not doubt Krycek. Utter frustration seized him.

"Should I demonsrate?" Krycek taunted. "It has a range of half a mile, or so I've been told. You can try to run off and test that theory, if you like." He smiled briefly. "I took _you_ with _me_ , Mulder. Don't forget that." He raised the knapsack and settled it on his right shoulder, then began walking.

Speechless with rage, Mulder had no choice but to follow.

* * *

To the creatures who ruled the universe, time did not matter. Time was something they had an abundance of.

To the people of the blue planet, it was all they had, although only a few knew it.

And when the day came, those few stood to the side, in the one place of ruling that was spared the destruction. Old men trembled in awe, and young men were made old on that day.

The emissaries of the elite race then joined the humans and informed them of a change in plan. The humans would not be allowed to rule alongside the master race. Such a thing was unheard of; a conquered people had no rights. The hybrids were placed in command, holding the planet until the supreme creatures could populate it themselves.

The old men of the blue planet were horrified when they realized how they had been betrayed. Some of them tried to resist, and were killed for their insubordination. Some of them tried to revert to their earlier plan of negotiation; they, too, were killed.

A very few swore allegiance to their new masters, and were placed in minor positions, with little status, but with their lives spared.

Compared to the rest of the humans, who faced death or slavery, these few men looked at their situation and saw that it was good. And if some of them wished to change things, they kept these desires hidden and secret.

* * *

"Why?"

Silhouetted by the setting sun, Krycek would not look at him. They had walked all day in an effort to put as much distance between themselves and the abandoned car as possible. They would sleep for a few hours, then set off again under cover of night.

"Answer me," Mulder insisted. He watched as Krycek went through his knapsack and removed two loaves of bread, and a bottle of water. "Dammit, Krycek."

Deliberately, the younger man bit off a hunk of bread. He chewed and swallowed. "I don't know," he said honestly. "Maybe it's because I'm sick of looking at people that aren't entirely human."

Mulder snorted. "Sure." He held out his hands, still cuffed together. "Give me some of that."

Krycek shook his head, making a negative noise. "No way. I couldn't take much--I was in a hurry. There's only enough for me."

The backpack looked awfully full for someone who had been unable to steal much, and Mulder frowned. "Come on, Krycek."

The Russian merely shook his head and tore another piece off the bread.

"You can't fucking starve me!" Mulder cried in frustration.

Krycek grinned humorlessly, showing bread between his teeth. "Who says I can't?" he asked.

Angrily, Mulder kicked at Krycek, sending dirt and pebbles in the younger man's direction. It was a stupid, feeble gesture, and it didn't make him feel one bit better. Furious at Krycek, disgusted with himself, he turned his back.

"Mulder." He didn't move, determined to ignore Krycek. "Mulder, I was just kidding. You can eat. Here." He didn't have to look to know that Krycek was holding out the other loaf of bread. "Mulder."

"Fuck you," he snarled, refusing to turn around.

"Suit yourself," Krycek murmured.

Silence fell, broken only by the sound of eating.

"I saved your ass, Mulder. Don't forget that. Those guys...they wanted to pull you out of that hole and flog you. I dicked around, got them to wait."

Krycek stopped talking, and Mulder thought angrily that if the young man was waiting to be thanked, he had one hell of a long wait in store.

"Do you really think you can find her?"

Forgetting his vow, Mulder whipped his head around. "What?"

"Scully. That's why you're doing this, isn't it?"

Krycek was almost done with the loaf of bread, and he gazed at Mulder with curiosity. "You're trying to find her, aren't you?"

Irrationally, it angered him to have been figured out so easily. "It's none of your business what I'm doing," he said petulantly. He stood up and walked off a few feet, gazing defiantly at Krycek, stomach growling, wishing he hadn't been so stubborn about taking the bread.

Krycek laughed. He put away the second loaf of bread, capped the water bottle and placed that in the knapsack, too. He stood, brushing crumbs from his jeans with his one hand. "Well," he muttered, looking around. "All right, Mulder. Take your pants off."

Mulder took a step back. His heart gave a nasty leap in his chest. "What?"

"You heard me." The leer that crossed Krycek's face was full of amusement, but it was also threatening. "Drop your pants. On your knees."

"No." He felt sick with fear and revulsion. His throat tightened and he had to force the word out. "No." Oh god, Krycek knew, he knew what had happened to him, he _knew_....

"Can't get something for nothing, Mulder. You didn't think I helped you escape just for fun, did you? Time to pay up."

He couldn't speak, he was frozen, only his eyes moved, darting about, looking futilely for escape. The handcuffs about his wrists suddenly weighed a ton, electricity already seemed to be pouring through his flesh.

"Do it, Mulder. Or I'll cut out your tongue myself and turn you in at the next checkpoint. And then you'll never find Scully." His voice was light, but Krycek was deadly serious.

Scully. Thinking of her, Mulder felt his resolve weaken. He couldn't do this, he couldn't, but...how could he not?

Krycek seemed to sense his dilemma, and he waited, right thumb hooked in the belt loops of his jeans.

He could not look at his tormentor. "Knock me out then," he begged, ashamed at how unsteady his voice was.

Krycek made an ugly sound. "I'm not into fucking the dead, Mulder. Now _get on your knees._ "

He bowed his head, knelt on the hard ground, closed his eyes. He heard the metal rasp of a zipper, and began to tremble; his breathing was reduced to shallow gasps.

An eternity passed before he heard Krycek come close. Hands grabbed his face and he recoiled reflexively. Then a pair of soft lips covered his, kissing him soundly. Mulder's eyes flew open, and he began to struggle.

Immediately Krycek let him go, stepping back. For a moment he merely looked at Mulder, then, incredibly, he began to laugh. "You're a real piece of work, Mulder, you know that?" He moved off, still laughing to himself.

Mulder couldn't move. Not even the slave auctions had succeeded in humiliating him so thoroughly. Krycek's soft laughter carried over the breeze.

It had all been a joke, just one more chance for Krycek to toy with him. He began to shake again, this time with suppressed rage. Swiftly he jumped to his feet and launched himself at Krycek, knocking the younger man to the ground. "You son of a bitch!" he screamed. He grabbed Krycek's hair with both of his cuffed hands, meaning to pound that dark head against the packed earth.

Krycek lashed out, striking Mulder in the throat with the side of his hand, throwing off his assailant. Mulder fell to one side, suddenly unable to breathe, unable to fight back as Krycek straddled him. "Don't you ever touch me again, Mulder. Or I won't bother turning you in. I'll just kill you. Understood?"

He coughed, his eyes streaming. "Go to hell," he croaked.

Krycek abruptly stood up. He held out his arm in a sweeping gesture. "Look around you, Mulder. We're already in hell."

* * *

The young woman's steps dragged as she approached her bed. Her breathing was the strangled sounds of someone trying not to cry.

Scully pursed her lips. The first time in the breeding hut was bad.

Beth fell onto her bed and sobbed, a sound that was immediately muffled as she tried to keep quiet.

She did a poor job of it.

Slightly impatient, Scully sat up. The sound penetrated Beth's crying, and she froze, breathing noisily through her mouth. Scully got out of her bed and stole across the aisle separating her bed from the younger girl's.

Beth watched her approach through wet eyes that were wide with fear. She sat up and scrubbed at her face, trying hard to control herself.

Scully shot a hasty glance around the room, gauging who was awake, who would see her and Beth together, who would see her secret. The risk was there, but the desire, the need to communicate, more urgent. Detecting no one watching her, she darted back to her bed and removed her paper and pencil from their hiding place.

"Bad?" she wrote.

Beth stared at the printed word with an intensity that almost frightened Scully. Trying to get the young woman's attention, she nudged her with an elbow.

Beth jumped, a startled sound escaping her. Scully hissed at her, her fist reflexively closing about the forbidden articles. Her grip was tight, and she didn't want to let go when Beth reached for the pencil.

"My first," Beth wrote.

Astonished, Scully's eyes flew to Beth's face, seeing the pure misery there, the pain and shame, the clean lines of youth, oh god, how young she was! She held up one finger, then six; raised a questioning eyebrow. Beth nodded.

Sixteen years old.

Beth looked at her quizzically, wanting the knowledge reciprocated, but Scully's thoughts had turned inward. To be sixteen again, to have her family intact, her innocence renewed...

After all this time it still rankled that she had never learned what had happened to her mother. Mulder had pulled her from the wreckage of Washington without a backward glance; she knew he had been right to do so, or they would not have survived, but she had never forgiven him for that.

Beth was still looking at her, and Scully raised three fingers, then eight. Thirty-eight years old. If they still made calendars, the year would be 2002. The earth had been under alien domination for four years.

Carefully Scully erased the words on the paper and wrote again. "Bleeding? Pain?"

Beth nodded.

Her palms were suddenly wet with sweat; her eyes burned. Amazing. Just two words, and the doctor in her was clamoring loudly, straining to break free. Sudden images assaulted her mind's eye: herself in an Army hospital in the Arctic, shouting down another doctor; assisting burn patients in a hospital in Townsend, Wisconsin; asking another doctor if he believed in miracles as he prepared her for a PET scan.

At the soft touch on her arm, Scully flinched, her hands instinctively coming up, ready to attack, ready to defend.

Beth's mouth dropped into a surprised o, and Scully slowly lowered her fisted hands. Deliberately she wrote, "Don't touch me. You'll be fine. Tell me if the bleeding doesn't stop."

Her eyes glistened with tears, but Beth blinked them back as she nodded. She made the universal gesture for thanks.

Scully nodded curtly, then moved back to her own bed. She erased all signs of writing on the tissue-thin paper, then laid down and closed her eyes.

* * *

The night was pure black.

Once upon a time he'd sat on a rock on a lake with Scully. Once upon a time she had held him in a Florida forest. Once upon a time he had sat in a car and told her an iced tea meant love.

Once upon a time he had held her in the dark and told her he loved her.

They had turned north after sunset. Krycek picked his way through the night with unerring accuracy, a legacy of his years as an operative for the Consortium. Mulder followed as best he could.

They walked in silence, an uneasy truce lying between them. His humiliation and subsequent defeat at Krycek's hands--or hand, rather--made Mulder bitterly aware of where he stood with the other man. With his hands cuffed, the slave's collar still around his neck, he was profoundly vulnerable, easily affected by Krycek's capricious moods.

Abruptly Krycek stopped walking, becoming an ebony shape against the night sky. "Let's stop for a bit."

Mulder sat down immediately, Krycek a bit later. The Russian rummaged through his knapsack and came up with the bottle of water. He uncapped it, drank deeply, then offered it to Mulder.

"Thanks." He drank, then handed it back to Krycek. The water awakened his earlier hunger, but Mulder said nothing. He'd die before asking Krycek for anything.

The night was deceptively cool, drained of the heat that covered the land during the day. Mulder drew up his legs, rested his forearms on his knees, and let his hands dangle, the chain between the handcuffs swinging back and forth lazily. The constant chafing of metal was rubbing his skin raw, and he grimaced as he tried to push them further up on his wrists.

"Why did you take me with you?"

Krycek sighed explosively. "I *knew* you'd ask me that."

"Then why don't you just answer the question?" Mulder retorted.

Krycek shook his head. In the dim indigo of night, Mulder could see the younger man's lips purse in frustration. "I don't know," he finally said. "I mean, I don't know what it is about you, Mulder. Why I can't stop thinking about you."

A flicker of alarm raced through him, and he looked at Krycek with wide eyes. The other man laughed shortly. "No, no. I like women as much as you do, Mulder." He sighed. "I just don't know. Half the time you infuriate me, and I want to beat the shit out of you. The other half...I just want to kneel at your feet and learn, have you teach me how you do it."

"Do what?" Despite himself, Mulder was intrigued. It was the first time Krycek had spoken to him as one man to another since their escape.

Krycek looked down at the bottle of water in his hand, tilted it one way, then the other. "I don't know," he confessed. "How you go on, I guess. How you persevere, in spite of the odds. How no matter what happens, you pick yourself up and go on."

Mulder looked at him. "Seems to me you already know how."

For a moment Krycek met his gaze, then looked away.

When he stood up, the motion was so abrupt that Mulder jerked back in surprise, bringing his hands in toward his chest, his hands balling into fists. He watched as Krycek paced restlessly, finally coming to a halt in front of him.

"I know where Scully is," Krycek said.

Mulder leapt to his feet. "Where is she?"

Krycek shook his head. "Unh-huh. I'm not telling you." Mulder uttered a sound of frustration and the younger man hastily continued, "But I'll take you there." When he was satisifed he had Mulder's attention, he added, "But you have to stay with me. No trying to run away."

Mulder snorted and held up his cuffed hands. "Forgetting something, Krycek?"

For a moment Krycek stared at him blankly, then his gaze cleared. "Oh, that," he said. He gave that peculiar one-armed shrug. "I made that up."

Astonished, Mulder could only blink and stare at Krycek stupidly. The younger man watched him through narrowed eyes, clearly expecting to be jumped on again.

Surprising them both, Mulder laughed. "That's a good one."

Krycek smiled thinly, then his expression became somber. "I wasn't shitting you about the danger we're in, Mulder. This is serious. I was important to their organization. They'll be looking for me. Me and whoever I have with me."

Mulder ignored the warning. "How did you get to be such a big shot?"

"Let's just say I had a prior connection to one of the aliens," Krycek muttered. "They knew me from that."

Mulder waited, but Krycek didn't elaborate. When the silence drew out uncomfortably, he sat down again.

After a long time, Krycek did so, too. "I tried to tell you about this, Mulder. I came to you for help."

"Resist or serve," Mulder said softly. Krycek glanced at him, surprised. "Yeah, I remember. I didn't believe you, though."

Krycek grunted. "Figures. You spent your life searching for the truth, and when someone finally gave it to you, you didn't believe it."

"You wouldn't have either, if you'd been lied to and used for as many years as I had," Mulder protested.

The younger man opened his mouth to reply, then closed it. He nodded and looked away.

"If you didn't believe in what they were doing, why did you stay?" Mulder asked.

Again that half-shrug. "You don't just walk away from those guys, Mulder. Once you were in, you stayed in." Krycek shot him a glance. "Your father knew that."

Mulder bit his lip against the knife-twist of pain in his chest at Krycek's words. Amazing that his father's death still had the power to hurt. "He wanted out, didn't he? That's why they had you kill him, isn't it?"

Krycek nodded. "Yeah," he whispered.

The truth was finally out. Mulder sat still, waiting for the anger to kindle within him. For years he had waited to hear Krycek confess to killing his father, and now the moment had come, and he was nonplussed. He had always expected so much more.

"For what it's worth, Mulder," Krycek said hesitantly, "I didn't want to do it."

"That's nice," Mulder said absently. He was still trying to figure out what had happened, why he felt nothing at Krycek's revelation.

"Mulder, did you hear me?"

"Yeah," he said thickly. It didn't matter anymore, he realized with a pang. His father had been killed seven years ago, a lifetime ago. The world had moved on since then. He cleared his throat. "Yeah, I heard you. But it doesn't really matter anymore, does it?" Krycek was looking at him expectantly, wariness darkening his eyes. "Are you waiting for me to try to kill you?" he asked.

A reluctant smile tugged at Krycek's mouth. "Well, yeah."

Mulder shook his head. "No such luck," he said.

Krycek gazed at him for a long moment, then leaned over and dragged the knapsack across the ground and onto his lap. He unbuttoned the front flap and reached inside, coming up with two shiny metal objects. He tossed them at Mulder, who caught them in mid-air.

"What are these?" The two keys caught the starlight and glittered silver. One was small, and the other...

Krycek said nothing, and Mulder unlocked the handcuffs from his wrists with hands that shook with sudden eagerness. With a pained grunt, he removed them and threw them to the side. He raised his trembling hands to his neck, the key skittering along his collar, passing uselessly over the keyhole as his efforts grew more frantic.

Wordlessly, Krycek held out his hand. For a moment Mulder stared at him, afraid to give up the key, to let go of it, afraid that he might never get it back. Then he exhaled shakily and placed it in Krycek's palm.

The keyhole was dirty, rusty, and the key didn't want to turn. Mulder held his breath and clenched his fists tightly enough that his fingernails left half-moons on his palms. Finally the key clicked home, and the collar parted with a snap. Krycek removed it and Mulder's hands flew to his neck, feeling his own flesh there, taking his first deep breath in years.

"How long have you been a slave?" Krycek asked in a quiet voice.

It was easier to meet Krycek's eyes now that they were on even ground. "Three years," Mulder said. "A little less than Scully has."

Krycek nodded. The two men's eyes met, and Mulder let his hands fall back into his lap. "Thanks," he said.

* * *

Thus the world moved on. The creatures of the blue planet, the humans, were conquered and enslaved by a race for whom they had no name.

In an effort to make their dominion utter and complete, the human slaves were forcibly silenced, thus ensuring obedience and humility. Children became a prized commodity; raised in ignorance of their former world, they were allowed to retain their voices.

One by one, those humans who had formerly held the reins of power in their hands succumbed to those very hands. Forbidden guns were fired, frail wrists were slashed, nooses were fashioned.

No one mourned their loss.

* * *

Inevitably, the days shortened. Even the strongest midday heat lessened, filtered now through the strong blue sky of autumn.

Scully watched the change of seasons through the kitchen window. She went outside rarely, only on her bi-weekly visits to the breeding cabin. She missed the warmth of the sun, the soft kiss of the wind, even the damp misery of the rain and the freezing cold of snow and ice.

The mood in the house was one of cautious optimism. Beth had missed a period.

It didn't have to mean anything; it probably didn't mean anything. All women knew that stress affected their cycles, altered their body's chemistry. Even so, the women of the house were filled with wary hope, with Etta leading the charge. A child would mean many things, foremost among them the fact that the master and mistress would be pleased, and the rest of the women might look for rewards. That it would also mean a return to the breeding program with renewed vigor seemed to have slipped most of the women's minds.

It probably wasn't even true. If it was, it would be only the second pregnancy Etta had presided over. Accordingly, she took no chances. Beth was given tasks that required nothing more strenuous than sitting down. She was ordered to take a nap each afternoon for an hour. Golden outdid herself in coming up with soft, nutritious foods.

Beth bore this new treatment with equanimity, just as she had suffered through the abuse of earlier weeks. But behind her calm stoicism, her eyes were filled with terror.

As the days filed past in orderly succession, Beth's fear became harder to ignore. Scully gnawed her lips to shreds in her efforts to avoid comforting the girl. She didn't want to help, she didn't _want_ to become involved. Up on the sidewalk, an innocent bystander, that's what she wanted to be.

Except she wasn't a bystander anymore, and she hadn't been innocent for three years. Not since the day they had held her down and branded her hip and cut out her tongue.

Safely behind wire-strung blankets in the warehouse, Mulder had said once, "They turned a man away today." Weary from his day on patrol, he sat before her, head bowed, hands resting on his drawn-up knees. She knelt behind him, her hands kneading at the knots in his shoulders.

At his words, the motion of her hands paused. "Why?" she asked.

Mulder sighed. "They said he was too old. That he wouldn't be able to contribute to the community, that he'd be useless, a burden on the rest of us."

But already, only a year after the initial attack, she'd been hardening. "They were right."

Mulder had half-turned. "How can you say that, Scully? He has as much right to safety and protection as we do." He shook his head. "If he's caught, they'll just shoot him."

She'd spoken softly. "Maybe he'd be better off that way."

Mulder sucked in a horrified breath, turned to face her all the way. Her hands fell into her lap like dead weights. "Why do you say that?"  
Under his intense gaze, her cheeks had heated, but she had not looked away.

"Oh, no, Scully," Mulder murmured. "Don't say that. Don't even think that. We'll...this won't last. We'll fight back. But we have to stick together, look out for each other." His voice hardened. "Young *and* old."

With an ugly cynicism that frightened her, she wondered who he was trying to convice. Blindly, she reached for him, and he was there, kissing her, gently at first, then with growing passion. She matched his eagerness, the kiss becoming more violent. She raised her arms, twined her fingers in his hair, pulled him down with her.

Mulder had broken the kiss first. "Scully--"

"Yes," she husked, and reached for him again. His mouth crushed hers, and she welcomed him, the rising heat that flushed her body...

"Dammit!" Golden swore as metal crashed to the floor.

With a jolt that was painful, Scully returned to the present. One hand was pressed against her mouth, the other balled into a fist in her lap. Across the kitchen, Beth met her eyes.

Scully blinked back the last of the memory and met the girl's clear-eyed gaze with one of her own.


	6. Chapter 6

It was raining.

They were somewhere in Arkansas, moving steadily northward, and it was raining.

Mulder coughed and shivered with a sudden chill, wrapping himself tightly in the thick overcoat he'd taken from a dead man. Ahead of him, right on cue, Krycek coughed as well.

He guessed it was the middle of October. Sodden gray clouds hid the sky from view, and piles of dead leaves squished underfoot. The raindrops were the cold ones of autumn, nothing soothing or relaxing about them. Mulder coughed again, and glared at Krycek's back, angry at the young man for being less sick than he was, angry at the forced furtiveness of their journey, angry that it was taking so long to find Scully, angry at the world.

They walked along a wire fence, fields of grain on their right, stretching off for miles. Faintly, in the distance, they could see the hunched-over forms of the slaves working the fields. Occasionally, when the wind was right, the crack of a whip carried over the breeze. On the left, a stand of trees marked the natural boundary line for the fields.

"Shhh." Abruptly Krycek raised his right hand, his head cocking to one side. Mulder stopped walking, his heart beginning to pound. Throughout their journey, Krycek had done this several times, and on each occasion he had steered them clear of danger. At first Mulder had resented this display, thinking that Krycek was merely showing off, but by now he had learned to trust the man's instincts.

Now Krycek pointed to the right, then held up three fingers. An unnecessary gesture--Mulder could hear them now. Hybrids, judging by their harshly-accented voices.

The three men were walking toward them, along the edge of the estate. With most of the land used up in great agricultural spreads, the two men had been forced to skirt groups such as these during their journey. Two months on the run had honed their instincts and kept them safe thus far, but sooner or later, Mulder knew, their luck would run out.

Moving swiftly, grateful for the wet leaves muffling their footsteps, he followed Krycek further into the wood bordering this particular estate. The hybrid guards would be more interested in checking out the fences, making sure the slaves of that estate could not escape; probably they would have no reason to peer into the woods. At least Mulder prayed they wouldn't feel particularly motivated to be thorough today; the rain would actually help in that respect.

Krycek hunkered down beside him, a stand of waist-high bushes providing a screen for the men to look through. The hybrids made their way down the fence, throwing it the most cursory of glances, telling ribald jokes, laughing coarsely at the obscene punchlines. None of them made any moves toward the woods.

They were nearly gone when Mulder felt the tickle at the back of his throat that signified a cough. Horrified, he clapped a hand over his mouth, trying desperately to hold back his body's reflexive action. "Quiet!" Krycek hissed in a barely audible whisper.

Tears streamed from his eyes as his throat convulsed painfully, trying to ease the itching of soft tissues. A strangled sound escaped him, and Krycek's hand clamped painfully on his arm. "Mulder!"

He could not help it. He could not stay silent anymore. Helplessly he looked at Krycek, beseeching him mutely for help, his shoulders and chest jerking with suppressed coughs.

Krycek's hand moved in a blur of motion, and Mulder found himself pinned to the ground on his back, suddenly unable to breathe at all, coughing the furthest thing from his mind. His lungs strained for air, his hands beat at the grip on his throat, more frantic as the seconds passed without oxygen. Dimly he heard the hybrids' laughter grow fainter as they moved off. Black spots danced before his eyes, obscuring his vision; his struggles weakened.

And then suddenly he could breathe again. Mulder rolled to his side, dragging in huge gulps of air through his gaping mouth. Coughs racked him and he curled into a ball against the pain in his chest. When the spasms subsided, he flopped onto his back and stared dully at Krycek.

"Better?" the younger man asked.

Mulder licked his lips. "Bastard," he whispered hoarsely. Already his neck was beginning to swell, bruise from Krycek's iron grip.

"I had to keep you quiet," Krycek said. "It was the only thing I could think of."

"I bet," he said wryly. Swallowing was painful, and so was talking.

Krycek stood up, then coughed himself. "Dammit," he grimaced. "This fucking rain."

"Yeah," Mulder muttered, then doubled as more coughing racked him.

"Come on, Mulder. We gotta keep moving," Krycek urged.

Mulder closed his eyes and groaned, but he slowly got to his feet. It was tempting, so damn tempting to just lay down and not get up, but he couldn't do it. He didn't have the luxury of resting. Somewhere north of here, Scully was still in slavery, waiting for him.

He started walking again, looking down, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other.

Middle of October, oh yeah. Can you say Happy Birthday Mulder?

* * *

She was flying, the blue sky was an open vista, she could go anywhere in the world. She pumped her wings, soaring through gossamer-thin wisps of cloud, sunlight dappling her feathers, tinting the thicker clouds gold. A cry of sheer delight broke from her throat. She had never imagined it could be like this. She turned her sleek head, looking for him, wanting to share her happiness--

With a start, Scully jerked awake. For a terrifying moment she was blind as her eyes adjusted, the irises grudgingly letting go their earlier vision of blue sky, the pupils expanding to let in more light. She blinked, and she could see again.

Nothing but darkness. The floor was hard beneath her cheek, and the air was close and stuffy, entering her lungs with reluctance. One hand contracted involuntarily, and something wet and cold oozed over her fingers. With a small breathy cry, she bolted upright and flung it across the room, hearing it splat against the wall close at hand.

Her chest heaved as she forced herself to breathe in deeply, to calm down. She had merely fallen asleep, probably not for long, either. The sponge she'd thrown at the wall still dripped, and the section of floor she'd finished scrubbing still wet.

This was Etta's idea, her way of making sure Scully knew who was in charge, her way of asserting authority. Scully thought cynically that Etta could stand to take lessons from the hybrids in charge of turning people into slaves. Cleaning the closet in the dark was a pretty paltry punishment compared to what *those* guys cooked up.

Feeling her way around in the dark, Scully found the sponge she'd thrown and picked it up, dunked it into the bucket of cooling suds. Desultorily, she began pushing it back and forth, her mind going back to her dream.

That sky...she'd never seen such a blue sky before in all her life. Probably never would again, either. It was that shade of blue reserved for paintings, for picturebooks, for dreams. Just thinking of it filled her with desperate longing.

_I could escape_

Her hand stilled. Her breath caught in her throat.

_I could escape_

That sky, that _blueness_ rose before her eyes and she shuddered abruptly, as if given an electric shock.

_I could escape_

How? The corner of her lip curled into a sneer, and she gripped the sponge tightly, slammed it into the floor with a ferocity born of anger. Sure. Escape. Just hand Etta her bucket and sponge and walk out the back door. How long before the guards caught her, how long before they shot her? Would she hear the gunshots before she felt them?

But... _I could escape_

An ugly sob forced its way past lips compressed into a thin line. She pressed the back of her hand against her mouth, faintly tasting Pine-Sol, wishing to God she had not fallen asleep, not seen that sky, that slice of heaven.

The door clicked as Etta opened it. "You done in here yet?" Behind her, Scully saw Golden standing by the stove, looking at her with sympathy. The kitchen was bright with the fall sun, and Scully looked at the square of light on the floor, then back at Etta. She shook her head.

"Suit yourself," Etta snapped, then shut the door. Darkness descended again.

Scully closed her eyes and lost herself in the blue.

* * *

The rain was even more miserable at night. Unable to find shelter, they were still in the woods. They'd propped fallen branches against a tree at an angle, forming a rudimentary tent. It wasn't much, but it kept them dry.

Dry being a relative term, Mulder thought wearily. He hadn't been completely dry in two days.

Behind him, Krycek slept uneasily. The younger man talked in his sleep, usually in Russian, Mulder had discovered. Tonight his mutterings were laced with English, words of pleading, of fear. Mulder watched with detachment, neither pleased nor dismayed by his companion's nightmares.

A deep cough racked him, and he groaned, trying to huddle further into his blankets. Like the coat he wore, like the shoes on his feet, they were stolen, sometimes from the dead, sometimes not.

"Are you sure?" Krycek said, in a suddenly clear voice. Startled, Mulder glanced at him, but the Russian was still asleep.

Over his head, the rain beat on the last leaves clinging to the trees. Mulder closed his eyes, coughed again, and finally felt himself relax into sleep, into dreams of the past...

"Are you sure?" Skinner asked in a somber voice. Bereft of his glasses, he looked surprisingly young.

He nodded. Since finding the burnt remains of the warehouse, only one thought had consumed him.

Scully.

Her body had not been among the corpses scattered at the still-smoldering ruins, and he had wept with relief then. It meant she was still alive.

"I don't know how I'll be able to guarantee your safety, Mulder," Skinner said. He was clearly unhappy with the idea, but to his credit, he had not tried overly hard to dissuade Mulder. He, too, knew it was the only way.

"I'll be fine, sir." The "sir" was habit; it came easily. The rest didn't. He swallowed hard. "I--I want you to be the one to do it. Will you?"

Skinner's eyes widened slightly in surprise, then he nodded.

He'd wandered for days after she was taken, unknowing and uncaring where he went. They could have taken him then and he would not have resisted them.

"Do you need any time?" Skinner asked.

He shook his head, managed a tiny smile. "I'd rather get this over with."

Skinner had been heading a small band of fighters for the Resistance when Mulder had literally stumbled across them. Utterly shocked to find his wayward agent, the older man had instantly taken him in and sought to learn his story. Upon learning of Scully's enslavement, the former Assistant Director had wept.

"Let's go," Skinner said.

They didn't have anything as sophisticated as a branding iron. From the tack room of the stable Skinner found two pieces of metal and hammered them into a crude X shape: the mark of the slave.

Held by a pair of long-handled tongs, the improvised brand slowly heated over a fire. Mulder refused to look at it. He stood in the doorway of the stable, facing the farmhouse that Skinner's people had taken refuge in. Most of them had been with the older man since fleeing Washington, and they all looked up to him with respect and near reverence.

"You're sure of this, Mulder?" Skinner's hand fell on his shoulder.

He did not turn around. "I have to find her, sir."

Skinner's gaze dropped to the ground. "We're ready."

The metal X glowed red with heat. Slowly Mulder turned his back, removed his shirt and lowered his jeans enough to bare his left hip. Skinner held the tongs in his gloved hand, the red glow from the heated metal revealing the sweat that beaded his brow. He lifted the brand, hesitated.

Mulder looked away. "Do it," he ordered. He closed his eyes, clenched his teeth, knew he would scream anyway.

"Dear God," Skinner muttered, then pressed the red-hot X against Mulder's hip, holding it there just long enough to leave a blistered imprint on the flesh.

The scream was ripped from his throat, and his knees buckled, spilling him to the ground. Through the roaring in his ears, he heard the clank of metal as Skinner dropped the cross, and then everything went black.

He came awake with a gasp, his own scream still ringing in his ears, his hip aching with a ghostly pain. He struggled to sit up, coughing weakly, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes to dispel the dream.

He heard a rustle of movement, and dropped his hands. Morning had arrived, and in the gloomy graylight he could see Krycek looking at him with empathy.

"Bad one, huh?"

Mulder grunted in affirmation.

Krycek took a deep breath. "Yeah. They're all bad ones, now, aren't they?"

* * *

_I could escape_

The thought came, unbidden, at all hours of the day.

_I could escape_

It mattered not that it wasn't true. She could not un-think it.

All the paranoia she had ever had occasion to feel came back with a vengeance. Was Etta watching her because she knew Scully's thoughts? Did Golden tell her to be careful because she knew what Scully was planning? Did Beth's sad eyes linger on her because she didn't want Scully to leave her?

_I could escape_

It became her mantra. It was her first thought upon waking, and her last before falling asleep.

Sleep...she dreamed of that blue sky with a growing frequency. The dazzling vista opened before her at night with startling clarity, never dulling or changing. And every night, before she could find Mulder, share her happiness with him, every night she woke, feeling cheated out of that blueness.

The real skies outside were no longer a cheery blue. Gray clouds held sway over all, darkening the days. Winter was coming, and quickly. On her trips to the breeding cabin she shivered in the unheated room and clung to the man there for warmth, rather than for pleasure.

Beth was due for her period any day now, and the women of the house held their collective breath. If she missed it, the level of celebration would rise a notch. If she missed a third one, the good news would be reported to the mistress by a beaming, proud Etta.

The young woman was no longer afraid. Her eyes had dulled over, losing their spark. She seemed to accept what had happened to her. Etta pointed to this as a good sign, saying Beth knew her body better than anybody, and if the girl thought she was pregnant, than she surely must be.

Scully, who knew better, thought this was utter bullshit. This early on, only chemical tests could determine Beth's true state, and for now, there was simply no way to tell.

Out in the front hall, Etta fussed at the missy, rearranging the woman's hat, telling her how pretty she looked. The two woman's voices rose and fell in counterpart, and from where she was, in the dining room, Scully could almost believe they were two friends, preparing for a day on the town.

Almost.

She gave the table leg she was working on one final furious scrub, then sat back on her heels. Her back ached from kneeling under the enormous mahogany dining room table; all morning she had been polishing it with a special cleaner. The fumes from the bottle made her throat hurt and her eyes burned.

_I could escape_

Dammit, she couldn't! Why couldn't she just accept that and move on?

Oh, but she knew why. Only in the dark hours of the morning was she utterly honest with herself, but she knew why, all the same. Far better to think she could escape, to believe that lie, than to think about the alternatives.

"Scully..." His eyes had been dark, swirling with emotion. "If...if something ever happens, I want you to know I'll find you." He'd reached for her hand, clasped it tight. "I won't let them hurt you. I'll come for you."

And god, she had laughed. She had told him not to be silly, that nothing would happen, they had survived this far, and they would continue to survive.

Only three weeks later the raid had come, and she had been taken and enslaved.

_I could escape_

Or she could do nothing, stay here and wait for Mulder. Mulder, who wasn't coming. Mulder, who would have been here by now if he could.

Which meant he was dead. He had to be.

Scully's throat closed up, and she squeezed her eyes shut against the sudden sting of tears. Crouched under the dining room table of her owner and mistress, she finally let herself acknowledge what she had known deep down for three years.

Mulder was dead.

She made a small sound, a tiny whimper. She dropped the rag and brought her hands up, held them over her mouth, damming back the grief.

Oh god. Mulder was dead.

_But I can escape_

She blinked back the tears, hating them, hating herself, and clung to the thought.

* * *

In the beginning of the new order, there was not much change. Then, slowly, the landscape of the blue planet altered. The human cities were torn down, laid to waste and left in rubble. Open land was used for agriculture, for planting, for sustaining the hybrids who now ruled. Precious metals were mined in the mountains of the planet, and arid deserts made fertile by the technology of the superior race.

Within four years, life on the newly conquered globe was very different from what its inhabitants had ever known.

New cities began to be erected, soaring palaces for the new rulers to live in, once they came from their home across the stars. Smaller towns became markets, places for slave auctions, centers where hybrids met and discussed this strange new planet and its people.

And singly, or in small bands, humans roamed, seeking freedom and finding none.


	7. Chapter 7

They were close. For the first time in years, Mulder felt something that could have been hope.

He had not wanted to stop for the night, waste one more day. But Krycek had been insistent. They must move slowly now. The estate where Scully was a slave lay just to the east, less than a day's journey. If they were reckless, hasty, and were caught now, what would have been the point of it all?

Krycek was right, but it galled Mulder to have to admit it. He sat in the ruins and refused to talk to the younger man.

The building they were sheltered in had once been a barn, the kind he remembered seeing from the highway, often with "John 3:16" painted on the roof. At some point, though, the roof had caved in and left the place nearly uninhabitable. Gaping holes dotted the boards of the walls, and a rusty pitchfork lay in one corner, missing two of its tines. The cold winter air poured in from these holes and the lost roof, and Mulder shivered. He had been in more miserable places in his life, but not many.

Krycek had built a smokeless fire, and the dancing flames managed to dispel some of the chill. Yesterday they had eaten the last of the canned food they had, and both men were hungry. Sullenly, they sat across from each other, gazing over the fire, saying nothing.

His stomach rumbled, and Mulder shifted on the wooden floor. Some of the floor boards had caved in near one of the corners, but this section was hard enough, according to his numb ass. He pulled his blanket tighter across his shoulders, trying to ignore the faint ripping sound as the hole at the seam tore a little more.

he thought, looking at the man across the fire. Krycek's hair had grown long, curling darkly over his collar; he shaved only when necessary, and dark stubble covered his cheeks. The younger man's clothes were as ripped and filthy as Mulder's, and in some places, the shiny plastic of his prosthetic arm could be seen.

Mulder sighed and closed his eyes. He'd given up caring about his own appearance years ago. Looking at the unshaven, long-haired Krycek was like looking into a mirror. Except for the arm, of course.

He surprised himself when he spoke. "Was it Russia?" One hand gestured at the prosthetic.

Krycek glanced down, and a flicker of pain crossed his face. "Yeah," he said shortly.

"They knew, didn't they? The Russians?" Mulder asked. Of course they had. All those experiments, the "black cancer"--it had all been a desperate attempt to protect themselves from the alien invaders. He and Krycek had just had the bad luck to get caught in the middle of it.

"Yeah they knew," answered Krycek. "They knew more than your government did."

"My government? Whatever happened to 'I love this country'?" smirked Mulder, remembering words spoken in a warehouse in New York, just before the Russian fiasco.

Krycek looked down. "It's nobody's government now."

"We never stood a chance, did we?"

The younger man met his eyes with candor. "Does it matter now?"

"Where do you go after tomorrow, Krycek?" he asked. "What happens to you?"

"Who said I'm going anywhere?" Krycek replied, with a touch of his old sarcasm lightening his voice.

"I don't think Scully will like that," Mulder said. To his vague surprise, he found he didn't want Krycek to leave. At some point on their journey, the man had stopped being the enemy. He still wasn't a friend, but he was an ally now, and God knew, the human race needed each other now more than ever.

"Guess you'll just have to persuade her," Krycek suggested.

Mulder smiled. "You just better hope she doesn't have access to any weapons. She's a damn good shot." He shrugged his left shoulder. "I'll attest to that."

"I never did get that," Krycek said in wonder. "That she'd shoot her own partner, rather than let you kill me."

His smile became nostalgic. "She's something, all right." Pain twisted in his stomach at the thought of all she had endured during the past three years, and his smile died.

"Tomorrow, Mulder," Krycek promised. "We'll find her."

Unable to speak, Mulder bit his lip and nodded.

* * *

She lay awake, waiting until the women were asleep, until the last crying sounds had subsided.

Was she really going to do this?

Sixteen years old and possibly pregnant after being raped three or four times. Possibly an innocent child, torn from its mothers arms within hours of its birth, raised as a slave, never knowing the world it should have lived in.

Could she really _not_ do this?

Beth slept in the bed across from hers, oblivious to Scully's dilemma. She snored lightly, her mouth open, eyes dancing beneath closed lids as she dreamed, perhaps of the life she had known four years ago.

Four years. She would have been twelve.

Scully dragged in a horrified breath; a knife sank into her chest. Twelve years old. The same age Mulder had been when his life had irrevocably changed, altering him in ways unimaginable. The man she loved had been created on that day. Was there not some man out there, who would one day hold Beth, look at the woman he loved and think she had been created on the day when she was twelve and the aliens attacked?

It was too much.

_I could escape_

Yes, she could. She didn't know how yet, but she could.

_I could escape_

But to burden herself with a young girl, a girl who might very well be pregnant? Could she really be so crazy as to think of such a thing?

"But we have to stick together, look out for each other. Young _and_ old." Mulder's words returned to haunt her. For a moment he was there, kneeling in front of her, his hazel eyes full of pain, full of love for her.

The knife in her twisted sharply and she winced at the pain. She could very well be condemning three innocent people to death, but she had to try. For Mulder's sake, for his memory, she had to try.

Scully reached out and gently shook Beth. The girl came awake with a startled cry, and Scully put one finger to her lips. She pulled out the forbidden paper and pencil, wrote swiftly.

"I am leaving tomorrow. Come with me."

China blue eyes widened in shock as Beth stared mutely at her. With a trembling hand, she reached for the pencil. "How?"

Scully shook her head and shrugged, a small smile tugged at her lips. Did it matter? Her heart suddenly lightened. Tomorrow she would probably die, but did it matter? She had made the only choice, the right choice.

Crying, Beth reached for her, and Scully pulled the young woman into her arms. Tears pricked her eyes, and she inhaled raggedly, then let them fall.

_for you mulder_

* * *

"I _hate_ this," Mulder muttered.

Krycek snorted. "Yeah, well, I don't like it any better than you do." He reached up, scratched at the collar around his neck. "How the hell did you wear this thing?"

"You get used to it," Mulder said dryly.

He snapped one of the handcuffs around Krycek's right wrist, threaded the other cuff through the belt loop of the man's jeans, but did not actually close it. No need to cuff his hands together, even for appearance's sake. The fact that Krycek could occasionally use his prosthetic as a weapon was their secret.

"Well," the Russian deadpanned, "do I pass inspection?"

Mulder eyed him. Still unshaven and dirty, wearing a slave collar and handcuffed, Krycek did indeed seem to be a captured runaway. Mulder rubbed his chin, feeling the lack of stubble there. In direct contrast to Krycek, he had shaved and cleaned up as best he could. Nothing could be done about the sorry state of his clothing, but he still appeared to be in charge here.

He nodded. "Yeah, you'll do. Just remember to keep your head lowered. Don't look anyone in the eye. Don't--" His voice faltered, and he swallowed hard. "I...I don't think I can do this, Krycek."

"You have to," the younger man snapped. "It has to be me." He gestured at his prosthetic. "If it wasn't for this, we could do it the other way around, but they'll have a description of me. They'd know." He paused. "You can do it, Mulder."

They'd been over this ground already, and Mulder grudgingly acquiesced. "Yeah, I know." A faint smile tugged at his lips. "Does this mean I get to shove you around as much as I want?"

"Watch it, Mulder," Krycek growled, before realizing the joke. He relaxed. "Just keep it realistic," he said. "You saw me do it."

"You don't need to remind me," Mulder said sourly.

Krycek said nothing. He'd already apologized for his actions, his brutality toward Mulder before their escape. There was no need to defend himself, and he knew it.

Mulder sighed and attached the leash to the collar around Krycek's neck. "Let's go, then," he said.

* * *

Another day, her last day here, she vowed. On her knees in the living room, Scully tensed as she heard footsteps in the hall, then relaxed; just Etta, placing a bowl of fresh flowers on the table in the foyer. After a few minutes, the woman walked back down the hall. For a space of mere seconds she was framed in the doorway of the room, and Scully bent her head, industriously polishing the coffee table, then Etta was gone.

Scully sat back on her heels, breathing easier. She still had no idea how she was going to escape. Her whole body thrummed with tension, her nerves were strung nearly to the breaking point. Tonight. It would have to be tonight.

Etta did not return into the hall, and Scully got quickly to her feet and ran to the desk the missy kept. She yanked open the top drawer of the desk, revealing scented stationery and pens that wrote purple ink, paper clips and rubber bands, a green marker and an ancient pack of cinnamon gum. Her heart pounding in her ears, she grabbed one of the pens and a pad of stationery, shoved the drawer shut. She ran back to the coffee table, thrusting the pad and pen under her skirt as she did so, dropping heavily back to her knees beside the table.

She picked up the rag and began moving it back and forth across the tabletop, waiting for her breathing to calm, her racing heart to slow, waiting for Etta, for somebody to cry, "Thief!". The pen and the edges of the paper poked into the soft flesh of her stomach, held there by her underwear. She didn't mind the discomfort; it was proof that she was indeed, leaving this place.

The front bell rang, and Scully's blood turned to ice. They knew! She was caught! Etta scurried down the hall, not wanting to keep the visitor waiting.

The door was opened. She scanned the room frantically. The window. Throw herself out the window. If she was lucky she'd catch a piece of glass in her throat, die quickly.

She stood, one hand drifting down, meaning to discard the pen, the paper, the evidence of her treason. As a male voice filled the hall, she uttered a bark of laughter. Why bother? Possessing contraband was a relatively minor offense compared to attempted escape.

She turned, took one step toward the window, all coherent thought erased from her mind; there was only the need for flight, for freedom. Etta squeaked something in the hall, then the male spoke again.

_oh god_ A small whimper escaped her. _god please_ She was frozen, unable to move, to cry out, to scream. The man in the hallway continued to speak, his voice reaching out to her, covering her, filling her with sudden trembling need. _please_

Etta spoke again, her voice more firm, a note of dismissal in her voice. She was trying to show the man out, asking him to please leave, to come back. Footsteps receded, moving toward the door, away from the living room, away from her, away...

With a thin cry, her paralysis broke. Scully ran from the room, skidding to a stop in the hallway, wide eyes seeking, searching.

Etta turned, her expression one of dismay at the sight of Scully. The man in the hall did not move at all, but his hazel eyes locked on hers, and in their depths she saw a promise fulfilled.

* * *

He had expected her to look radically different; he had expected her to look exactly the same.

In truth, she was neither.

Her blue eyes held pain, fear, a sorrow he would never be able to understand. And as the seconds dragged out, they began to fill with hope.

Behind him, standing on the porch, flanked by two guards, Krycek stirred, hard enough to tug on the leash in his slack hand. Mulder jerked, then turned around and whipped the free end of the leash across Krycek's face. Instantly a red weal rose, and Mulder hissed, "Stand still, you filth!"

The two guards from the estate snickered, but the woman in the hallway gasped, and Mulder turned back to her. He straightened his shoulders, put on his most haughty expression, then pointed to Scully. "Madam, I do believe you are a liar. That woman is the slave I seek."

Scully's jaw dropped, her eyes became round circles of fear in her pinched face.

"There must be some mistake," the housekeeper floundered. "She is a good slave, a hard worker."

"She is a murderer, and wanted for justice, madam, just like this man is," Mulder said harshly, gesturing behind him toward Krycek. "Now stand aside and let me do my job."

"But," the woman did not move, but her voice was uncertain, "sir, the master is not here. Please, won't you wait until he returns? I'm sure we can work this out."

Mulder shook his head. "Give me the woman." He swallowed, then forced a note of menace into his voice. "Or I'll arrest you both."

The woman faltered, stepped back, glancing behind her at Scully, then back to Mulder. "I--"

"Do it now, woman!" Mulder snapped.

Finally cowed, the housekeeper turned, her face full of frustration. "Go with him, then," she spat at Scully. "And to think how well we all treated you here."

Scully took a step back, one hand reaching behind her. Her head shook back and forth slowly.

"Don't you run away," the housekeeper threatened.

Mulder held out his hand. "Let's go," he said.

Scully's eyes flicked down to his outstretched hand, then back up at him. Then she turned and ran.

* * *

There were too many thoughts skittering about her brain; thinking was impossible.

_I could escape_

_Mulder!_

_Stand still, you filth!_

_Beth!_

_She is a murderer_

_I could escape_

Oh no, not today she couldn't. Running flat out, she hit the swinging door leading into the kitchen with stiff arms. Golden stood at the stove, stirring a pot of soup, and the astonishment on her dark face at Scully's unorthodox entry would have been hysterical under other circumstances.

Beth sat at the work table, oblivious to the confrontation in the hall, peeling vegetables.

"Come back here, you slut!" Etta shouted.

"Stop her!" cried one of the guards.

A body struck the wall out in the hall, a meaty thud.

Beth's wrist was slender and hot under her hand as Scully yanked her from the chair.

"What on earth are you doing, child?" cried Golden.

Etta burst through the kitchen door, her features stormy with rage. "Get back here, bitch! How dare you run away from me!"

Beth needed no urging now. She was on Scully's heels as the older woman reached the back door.

"Stop right there!" yelled a guard.

In the close confines of the kitchen, the gunshot was deafening. Scully ducked as splinters of wood sprayed from the door. Beth screamed loudly, falling to her knees.

Oh god was she hit? Scully turned, bent over the kneeling girl.

"No!" Mulder tackled the guard who'd fired, knocking the man to the floor. "Don't shoot them!"

Golden began to scream.

Beth struggled to her feet, unharmed.

In the open doorway she saw Krycek grappling with the other guard, his cuffed hand somehow free now.

The doorknob slipped under her sweaty palm, and she gripped it harder and pushed. The door swung open, slowly at first, then was caught in a gust of winter wind. It banged against the back of the house with the sound of a gunshot.


	8. Chapter 8

She ran.

For a split second he could only stare after her in complete idiotic amazement. The plan was going to hell before his eyes, and she was *running* from him.

Then the housekeeper took off, and he was roughly shoved aside by the guards as they ran past him.

It took all his willpower not to call her name as he began to run. There was still a chance they could make it out of here alive, a slim one, but a chance nonetheless.

When the guard fired, Mulder was horrified. Heedless of the consequences, he threw himself on the man, crying, "Don't shoot them!" He smashed the guard's wrist against the floor, ignoring the man's frantic struggles.

The black woman by the stove was screaming, her hands clasped to her face, her eyes bulging. One hand still held her ladle, and a thin stream of soup ran down her arm.

The guard finally let go his weapon and Mulder snatched it up, brought it down on the man's head with all his strength. There was a sickening crack, and the man went still.

"Mulder!" Krycek's cry was low and desperate. He'd had the element of surprise when he originally jumped the second guard, but he was rapidly losing ground.

A gun fired, this one from in front of him, and he flinched, spinning around, forgetting Krycek. "Scully, no!" he cried, belatedly realizing it hadn't been a shot after all, but the back door flying open and hitting the house.

Her head whipped around, red hair falling across her eyes, obscuring her vision. She shook her head sharply, trying to clear her view.

Above, thunder rumbled, and it took Mulder a moment to realize that it wasn't thunder, but footsteps. The house slaves, men and women, coming to investigate the chaos; more guards would be arriving soon.

"Go, go!" Krycek shoved at his back, and Mulder ran across the kitchen.

* * *

Beth was still sobbing in terror as Scully yanked her through the door and out into the cold afternoon.

"Go, go!" shouted Krycek, from back in the kitchen.

"Scully!" Mulder's voice was despairing, his scream mingling with Golden's.

She could not stop running. The breeding cabins flashed by on her right. Beth's hand held hers in a panicky grip.

Another gunshot from in the house, and Etta screamed this time, a high-pitched sound of agony.

"Scully!" Mulder's voice was closer now, and she risked a glance over her shoulder. Both he and Krycek were outside now, with the guard just coming out the door.

The gun fired again, and Beth's hand was ripped from hers. Sheer momentum carried Scully forward for a few steps before she staggered to a stop.

Behind her a different gun fired, and Scully turned, seeing the guard fall in the doorway, seeing the gun in Mulder's hand, seeing Beth's crumpled form on the ground.

She stumbled a step forward, and then Krycek was there, his hand grabbing her arm, the loose handcuff bumping against her. "Leave her!" he shouted.

She screamed at him, flailing out with her free hand, hitting him in the face.

"Scully, come on!" Wild hazel eyes bored into hers, caught her hand and pulled her off Krycek.

Beth lay still as they moved away from her.

At a dead run, her arms caught in two vise-grips, they bore her off, screaming.

* * *

Across the galaxy, the superior race continued their dominion over all other creatures. The blue planet, third from its sun, was just one more conquest.

To those on that planet, however, life was far more precious than ever.

But to the two whom our story is about, life was only secondary to the strong current of emotions that accompanied them always.

They were torn apart, and they met again.

And now we narrow our focus. The world has moved on, it is not to be changed.

Men and women, they may change, however. They are always changing.

* * *

They had run for miles, dragging Scully between them, deathly silent after her earlier screams.

With unerring accuracy, Krycek had guided them, nearly spent, to the road, and when a car had come, Mulder had coldly shot the driver and the lone passenger.

For a time, the car had enabled them to put real distance between themselves and their pursuers; Krycek had gotten behind the wheel, taking time only to unlock the collar from his neck. Mulder sat beside Scully in the back seat, holding her limp hand in his, unable to force words through his closed-up throat.

After only half an hour, they'd run out of gas and were forced to flee on foot again; Scully followed them silently, obediently. In her hand she clutched a pen and pad of paper that had appeared from nowhere, and Mulder's heart had broken when he realized the implications of this.

At night, they had finally stopped, sheltering in the ruins of a house, not unlike the barn he had Krycek had hidden in only yesterday. Yesterday. Was it possible that only 24 hours had elapsed since he and Krycek had put together their plan for rescuing Scully?

The Russian had left to prowl through the house, ostensibly searching for edible food, for blankets and water. But Mulder knew the real reason Krycek had left them alone, and he stared at Scully now, seeking the right words. She knelt next to the fire, huddled under a blanket, her arms wrapped around herself, her eyes dark. The pen and paper had disappeared again.

The silence was unbearable, and Krycek would be back soon. Mulder tugged on the afghan around his shoulders, stood up and walked around the fire, meaning to sit beside Scully. When she saw him coming, she jumped to her feet.

"Scully--" He took a step toward her and she backed away, alarm and anger in her eyes. "Scully, please."

She shook her head, and gestured for him to go away.

Oh god, they'd stolen her voice, her beautiful voice. She'd never again speak, say his name. He had managed to convince himself that it was only the trauma of their escape that had rendered her mute, but now the last of his hopes crashed painfully into the dust.

Scully stood still, eying him warily, waiting for him to go. Mulder shook his head. "No," he said stubbornly. "I won't."

Her hands clenched into fists and she bared her teeth. He tried again to approach her and she stiffened, one fist coming up.

He stopped. "Is this it, then? This is how it ends? Scully--"

She stiffened, raised her chin high, waved her hand imperiously. Go. Leave. Those blue eyes were still inscrutable.

"I'm sorry about the girl, Scully. I know you must have cared for her." He stopped, wishing to heaven he knew the right words. "I know you've suffered, Scully. I know you've been through things...things I can't even imagine. But don't shut me out because of that." He stopped, looked at her pleadingly. "I've suffered, too, Scully."

Her lips twisted into a scornful sneer, and she flapped her hand at him, dismissing his statement.

"Scully, I've been through hell for you!" he protested.

She glared at him, then turned her back.

He was stunned. All he had been able to think about, all he had done, everything he had endured for three years, was for finding her and saving her. Now the moment had finally come, he had her.

And she wanted nothing to do with him.

"Scully." He walked around her. Her face was closed up, revealing nothing of her thoughts.

An ugly thought came to him. "Do you think I've been running along with Krycek all this time? Is that what you think?" She turned her back again, but not before her eyes cut in his direction, and he knew that she did, indeed, think this of him.

"Look at me, Scully." She ignored him, and in sudden anger he shrugged off his blanket, tore off his shirt. "Look at me, dammit!" Her head moved, grudgingly, and he turned around. "Look at me, Scully," he repeated, softer.

He heard her gasp, knew her eyes must be wide with horror, staring at the ugly brand just visible on his hip, at the latticework of scars that criss-crossed his back, legacy of three years as a slave. He heard her step forward, but he made no move to face her. "I walked into hell for you, Scully. And I'm not going to give you up so easily."

Hesitantly, she touched him, her fingertips tracing the scars across his shoulders, his back. A soft sound escaped her, and he finally turned around. She stared at him wonderingly, then her face twisted, her eyes squeezing shut. Silently, she began to cry.

He took her in his arms, holding her gently. He bowed his head so his cheek rested on her hair and breathed her in.

* * *

It hurt to cry, hurt with a physical pain that twisted her insides, made her sob loudly. Mulder's arms were warm and strong around her, and she sank into his embrace, letting his strength hold her up, letting herself relax the tight restraints she had kept on herself for so long.

"Oh, Scully, I'm so sorry," Mulder said into her hair. His voice was thick, he was crying himself.

She hadn't really believed he had been with Krycek, she hadn't, but it was so much easier to be angry with him, to hate that he was obviously doing well, walking around in the open without fear of capture.

And oh, how she had hated him, during their flight through the woods. Hated that he had been able to walk straight into her prison and demand her back, hated that he looked healthy and strong, hated that it had taken him three years to find her.

Until she'd seen. She knew the marks of the whip; nearly every man that she had lain with in the breeding cabin was marked by it in some manner or another. And never had she seen scars such as those on Mulder's back. The thought of him being beaten for infractions both real and imagined, the knowledge that he had borne it all for her, was her undoing.

She raised her head, pushed against his chest until he let her go. His eyes were reddened from crying, and he could not hide the desperate hope in them as he gazed down at her. "Scully...?"

She did not wipe away her tears as she walked around him. He stood still as she moved behind him, but his shoulders hunched slightly. "Scully?"

She leaned in, planted a gentle kiss on a particularly nasty-looking mark, her lips barely touching the white scar tissue. Mulder gasped and flinched. "Scully."

She moved across his back, leaving soft kisses as she went. She circled him, came around to stand in front of him again. He was puzzled, unsure how to react, and she stood on tiptoe, kissed the corner of his mouth.

His arms crushed her to him. "I thought I'd never find you."

She returned the embrace with all her strength. _I knew you would_ she thought, pressing against him, trying to impart with her body what her voice could not.

One of his hands lifted her chin. She gazed up at him, answering with her eyes his unspoken question. He bent his head and his lips touched hers, gently, then with growing passion. She returned the kiss, her lips parting slightly, and abruptly Mulder pulled back. His eyes were wide with horror.

"I...can you..." he broke off, pain crossing his features.

In response, she reached up and pulled his head down, kissed him firmly.

Mulder tore his mouth from hers, left a trail of burning kisses down her cheek, her jawline, her throat, nuzzling the flesh that until this morning had worn a slave collar. His hands moved down her body over her gray dress; when he reached her stomach, he stopped, a quizzical look on his face.

Scully smiled at his confusion, unable to help it. She reached under her skirt, removed the pen and paper she'd stolen. Mulder looked at them and his eyes filled with tears again.

Angrily she shook her head. She didn't want him to cry now; she wanted him to be strong, to kiss her again, to make her *feel* again. In one synchronized movement she toed off her shoes, pulled off the dress, stood before him in only her panties.

Mulder's eyes darkened as he stared at her body, taking in the brand on her hip, the new scar on her upper arm where an auctioneer's whip had caught her once. Then his arms gathered her in, her breasts flattening against his chest; she closed her eyes, revelling in the feel of naked flesh meeting naked flesh.

He kissed her breasts, his tongue laving her nipples in the way that had always driven her crazy. Her fingers curled in his hair, small sounds emanated from the back of her throat. His hands moved downward, sliding off her panties; he knelt before her, pressing his face into the concavity of her belly, a man worshipping his goddess.

She reached down and took his face between her hands, mouthed the words she could not say.

"I love you, too, Scully," he groaned. His hands came up, bearing her to the ground, helping her to lay down on the blankets they had discarded earlier. She settled on her back, hands reaching for his belt.

Abruptly Mulder sat up, his hand shoving hers aside. She frowned at him, at the fleeting pain that crossed his eyes. For a long moment he stared at her, then a small smile crossed his face. "It's all right," he said, more to himself than to her. She smiled back tentatively, waited for him to finish undressing, waited for him to lay beside her.

Fully naked, she clasped him to her, feeling a surge of joy rush through her veins. This, this is what she had aspired to, all those nights of rushed sex. This is what she had dreamed of, longed for.

"Scully?" His voice was a hoarse whisper, his eyes dark with passion as he looked down on her. Her smile widened and she nodded.

* * *

He lay still as dawn came, the house slowly filling with the pearly pink light of morning. The body in his arms was real, and for that he gave thanks to all the gods that had ever been or would be. His breath caught in his throat as he turned his head slightly, seeing only strands of red hair; her head was nestled on his shoulder, just under his chin.

They had slept, neither of them caring about Krycek, who tactfully remained upstairs. And at some point in the night he had woken and heard her crying brokenly. There had been no words; none were necessary. Kisses of comfort had turned into kisses of passion, and this time they had coupled with a barely restrained violence, falling into deep sleep almost immediately afterward.

Overhead, something crashed, and Mulder jerked. Scully stirred, then sat up abruptly, her hand flying to her neck. Mulder watched as she felt for the collar that was no longer there, watched as her eyes darkened with comprehension. Not so long ago he'd done the same thing.

"Dammit!" Krycek's voice was furious, and now they could hear footsteps.

Scully scampered over to where her dress was and put it on hastily. Mulder moved slower than her, and by the time he was dressed, she'd written a note and was holding it out to him.

"What happens now?"

He couldn't lie to her. "I don't know," he shrugged. "We hadn't planned that far ahead."

"Is there anywhere to go?" she wrote.

"Mulder! We gotta go." Krycek thumped unnecessarily loudly as he came down the stairs and into the ruins of the living room. His cheeks flushed slightly as he looked at the couple standing there. "We've stayed longer than we should have. They'll be looking for us."

Mulder nodded. "Yeah." Mechanically, he began gathering their things, preparing to head out.

Scully crumpled the note in her hand. Mulder's silence was all the answer she needed.

* * *

They walked throughout the day, staying off the road, but following it as it headed northeast. Krycek had suggested they make their way up to Canada. With less land available for agriculture, the young man said, it stood to reason that they would be able to hide out in relative safety.

Scully was silently skeptical of this, but she did not attempt to dissuade Krycek.

He had spoken only once to her, and that as they were leaving the ruined house. "I'm sorry about what happened to you," he'd said, his green eyes dark with sincerity.

She'd nodded regally, unable to bend enough to really trust the man, no matter what Mulder said.

Mulder. He walked beside her, often holding her hand, occasionally throwing glances in her direction. Each time he did so, a look of wonder crossed his face, and he smiled at her, the hesitant smile of someone unable to believe his good fortune. Each time, she smiled back.

Her smiles were short-lived, however. She could not smile when she thought of Beth, left to die on the lawn of the house, betrayed in death as well as in life. The young woman had died because of her, and Scully could not forgive herself. It would be a long time before her hand stopped opening and closing, wondering where the girl's hand was, why she was no longer running beside her.

They stopped at night again, this time in a real house. They'd reached the outskirts of a town, where cars lined the streets, and houses stood in an eerie silence. Scully didn't want to stop, unnerved by the seemingly normal appearance of the town, but she reluctantly had to admit she was exhausted from all the walking.

She sat in the circle of Mulder's embrace as they ate food from cans around yet another smokeless fire. Krycek talked about Canada, about the things he'd heard. "They don't have as many spreads, but the ones they do have are huge. They have to be, in order to be self-sufficient."

Going to Canada in the middle of winter didn't seem such a bright idea, and Scully wrote as much, using tiny letters on the scented stationery.

"It'll be tough," Krycek said. "I won't lie to you. But what other options do we have?"

"We could stay here," she wrote. "Find others."

"Scully." Mulder's voice was soft, and she turned to look up at him. "Skinner's dead. They killed him when they got me, all because he wouldn't submit to being a slave."

Tears filled her eyes, and she drew a question mark on the paper.

Mulder shook his head. "Some other day. You don't want to hear about that now."

For a moment her eyes flashed angrily, then she nodded. He was right. They had the rest of their lives to talk, to fill each other in on the missing years.

"You can stay here if you want," Krycek said, "but I'm leaving in the morning. What do you say?"

She looked at him, taking in the raised welt across his cheek where Mulder had struck him, the way the clothing he'd stolen from the house hung on his thin frame. Looked at Mulder, at the dark hair that curled over his neck, at the eyes that were already less haunted. She wrote in large enough letters for both men to see, then held up the paper.

"We stick together."

* * *

When they left the house, it was with a wary optimism.

It was one of those idealized early winter mornings. Only a few clouds marred the blue perfection above, and the wind was crisp but not cold. Staring into that blue made Mulder's eyes tear up if he looked for too long.

When the two men popped up from behind the van, his first thought was that they weren't real, only decoys meant to scare.

Then one of them pulled the hammer back on his rifle and Mulder knew.

"Going somewhere?" Stained yellow teeth spread into a thick grin. The other one was unarmed, silent.

A flurry of movement on his left, and Krycek was gone.

With a sinking heart, Mulder turned toward Scully, knowing he was already too late.

* * *

Mulder turned toward her, and then she lost sight of him as she completed her own rotation.

"Stop right there!"

Krycek, where was he?

She started to run, never had a chance.

Something kicked her in the back, spinning her around. Her chest absorbed a second blow, and she was falling backwards, arms flailing.

The gun kept firing. She didn't know how many bullets it held, lost count of how many had already been spent.

Her body jumped as she was hit again.

Mulder.

A thin cry escaped her.

The ground shook as she landed heavily on her back.

Her eyes blinked, focused on the blue sky arching over her, the sky of her dreams.

The rifle cracked again, and then she was flying.

* * *

Scully.

He had to get to her.

She lay faraway, so close, her life's blood soaking into the ground.

He coughed, choked, crawled forward.

"Hey, watch this," one of the men laughed.

The gun went off, and his body jerked with another ugly impact. His arms wobbled, then collapsed, spilling him to the earth.

One of her hands was almost within reach. It lay palm up, fingers open, beckoning him.

He inched toward her, swallowing against the blood rising in his throat. "See? Son of a bitch," the man said admiringly.

"Ah, let him be. He's a goner anyway," the other one said.

He reached her and allowed himself to fall beside her one last time. Her eyes were open, their brilliant blue already clouding over.

He took her hand in his blood-streaked one, clasped it as tight as he could.

His eyes closed. At least they had died free.

His chest hitched, rose and fell once, and did not rise again.

* * *

And so ends our tale, my children.

All this happened in the beginning, many ages ago, back in the time of your grandmother's grandmother. But still we tell the tale, still we speak of those doomed lovers.

For there is a lesson to be learned from the old legend. No, I cannot tell it to you. You must discover it for yourself.

One day we will rise, we will claim what is rightfully ours. Until then we wait, we tell our tales in secret, we pay lip service to those that rule us. We wait, knowing our time will come.

But we also remember, my children.

* * *

**FINIS**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by a line in "The Red and the Black," I started this story in the beginning of May. "Resist or serve"--well, it seemed throwaway at the time! Always in my mind lay the shadowy goal of getting the story done and posted before the movie was released. Therefore you can imagine my dismay when, on June 6, I received my _Entertainment Weekly_ , complete with a nifty summation of the themes in the movie, and discovered that they were the exact same as the ones in this story. Suddenly, it was not only a good idea that I post this before the movie, it was imperative!
> 
> Despite my terror-driven, speed-demon-typing of the last sections of this story, I am nonetheless pleased with the final results. I hope you are, too. As always, I am interested in hearing from you and what you have to say.
> 
> On a last but certainly not least note, many many thanks to Jen Collins for her eagle-eyed editing, to Elspeth and Leyla for their help and suggestions, and to my husband Kevin, for providing me with a title and the encouragement to begin writing in the first place.


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